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ANITA  D.  S.  BLAKE 


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E.  F.  BENSON 


BY  E.  F.  BENSON 


AN  AUTUMN   SOWING 

CRESCENT  AND  IRON   CROSS 

THE  TORTOISE 

THE  FREAKS   OF  MAYFAIR 

DAVID  BLAIZE 

MICHAEL 

THE  OAKLEYITES 

ARUNDEL 


NEW  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


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BY 

E.  F.  BENSON 

Author  of  "Dodo,"  "David  Blaize,"  etc. 


NEW  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


Copyrighty  igi8, 
By  George  H.  Doran  Company 


GIFT- 

[Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


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102 


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MAY,  1914 

I  DO  not  know  whether  in  remote  generations  some 
trickle  of  Italian  blood  went  to  the  making  of  that 
entity  which  I  feel  to  be  myself,  or  whether  in  some 
previous  incarnation  I  enjoyed  a  Latin  existence, 
nor  do  I  greatly  care:  all  that  really  concerns  me  is 
that  the  moment  the  train  crawls  out  from  its  bur- 
rowings  through  the  black  roots  of  pine-scented 
mountains  into  the  southern  openings  of  the  Alpine 
tunnels,  I  am  conscious  that  I  have  come  home. 
I  greet  the  new  heaven  and  the  new  eath,  or,  per- 
haps more  accurately,  the  beloved  old  heaven  and 
the  beloved  old  earth ;  I  hail  the  sun,  and  know  that 
something  within  me  has  slept  and  dreamed  and 
yearned  while  I  lived  up  in  the  north,  and  wakes 
again  now  with  the  awakening  of  Briinnhilde.  .  .  . 
The  conviction  is  as  unfathomable  and  as  imper- 
vious to  analysis  as  the  springs  of  character,  and  if 
it  is  an  illusion  I  am  deceived  by  it  as  completely 
as  by  some  master- trick  of  conjuring.  It  is  not 
merely  that  I  love  for  their  own  sakes  the  liquid  and 
dustless  thoroughfares  of  Venice,  the  dim  cool 
churches  and  galleries  that  glow  with  the  jewels  of 

7 


8  UP  AND  DOWN 

Bellini  and  Tintoret,  the  push  of  the  gliding  gon- 
dola round  the  comers  of  the  narrow  canals  beneath 
the  mouldering  cornices  and  mellow  brickwork,  for 
I  should  love  these  things  wherever  they  happened 
to  be,  and  the  actual  spell  of  Venice  would  be 
potent  if  Venice  was  situated  in  the  United  States 
of  America  or  in  Manchester.  But  right  at  the 
back  of  all  Venetian  sounds  and  scents  and  sights 
sits  enthroned  the  fact  that  the  theatre  of  those 
things  is  in  Italy.  Florence  has  her  spell,  too,  when 
from  the  hills  above  it  in  the  early  morning  you  see 
her  hundred  towers  pricking  the  mists;  Rome  the 
imperial  has  her  spell,  when  at  sunset  you  wander 
through  the  Forum  and  see  the  small  blue  cam- 
panulas bubbling  out  of  the  crumbling  travertine, 
while  the  Coliseum  glows  like  a  furnace  of  molten 
amber,  or  pushing  aside  the  leather  curtain  you  pass 
into  the  huge  hushed  halls  of  St.  Peter's;  Naples 
has  her  spell,  and  the  hill-side  of  Assisi  hers,  but 
all  these  are  but  the  blossoms  that  cluster  on  the 
imperishable  stem  that  nourishes  them.  Yet  for  all 
the  waving  of  these  wands,  it  is  not  Bellini  nor  Tin- 
toret, nor  Pope  nor  Emperor  who  gives  the  spells 
their  potency,  but  Italy,  the  fact  of  Italy.  Indeed 
(if  in  soul  you  are  an  Italian)  you  will  find  the  spell 
not  only  and  not  so  fully  in  the  churches  and  forums 
and  galleries  of  cities,  but  on  empty  hill-sides  and 
in  orchards,  where  the  vine  grows  in  garlands  from 
tree  to  tree,  and  the  purple  clusters  of  shadowed 
grapes  alternate  with  the  pale  sunshine  of  the 
ripened  lemons.    There,  more  than  among  marbles. 


MAY,  1914  9 

you  get  close  to  that  which  the  lover  of  Italy  adores 
in  her  inviolable  shrine,  and  if  you  say  that  such 
adoration  is  very  easily  explicable  since  lemon  trees 
and  vines  are  beautiful  things,  we  will  take  some 
evample  that  shall  be  really  devoid  of  beauty  to 
anyone  who  has  not  Italy  in  his  heart,  but  to  her 
lover  is  more  characteristic  of  her  than  any  of  her 
conventional  manifestations. 

So  imagine  yourself  standing  on  a  hilly  road 
ankledeep  in  dust.  On  one  side  of  it  is  a  wine-shop, 
in  the  open  doorway  of  which  sits  a  lean, 
dishevelled  cat,  while  from  the  dim  interior  there 
oozes  out  a  stale  sour  smell  of  spilt  wine  mingled 
with  the  odour  of  frying  oil.  A  rough  wooden  bal- 
cony projects  from  the  stained  stucco  of  the  house- 
front,  and  on  the  lip  of  the  balcony  is  perched  a 
row  of  petroleum  tins,  in  which  are  planted  half 
a  dozen  unprosperous  carnations.  An  oblong  of 
sharp-edged  shadow  stretches  across  the  road;  but 
you,  the  lover  of  Italy,  stand  in  the  white  of  the 
scorching  sunshine,  blinded  by  the  dazzle,  choked 
by  the  dust,  and  streaming  with  the  heat.  On  the 
side  of  the  road  opposite  the  wine-shop  is  a  boulder- 
built  wall,  buttressing  the  hillside;  a  little  behind 
the  wall  stands  a  grey-foliaged  olive-tree,  and  on 
the  wall,  motionless  but  tense  as  a  curled  spring, 
lies  a  dappled  lizard.  From  somewhere  up  the  road 
comes  the  jingle  of  bells  and  the  sound  of  a  cracked 
whip,  and  presently  round  the  comer  swings  a  dingy 
little  victoria  drawn  by  two  thin  horses  decorated 
between  their  ears  with  a  plume  of  a  pheasant's  tail 


10  UP  AND  DOWN 

feathers.  The  driver  sits  cross-legged  on  the  box, 
with  a  red  flower  behind  his  ear,  and  inside  are  three 
alien  English  folk  with  puggarees  and  parasols  and 
Baedekers.  You  step  aside  into  the  gutter  to  avoid 
the  equipage,  and  as  he  passes,  the  driver,  with  a 
white-toothed  smile,  raises  and  flourishes  his  hat 
and  says,  "Giorao,  signor!''  The  lizard  darts  into 
a  crevice  from  which  his  tail  protrudes,  the  carriage 
yaws  along  in  a  cloud  of  dust.  ...  It  all  sounds 
marvellously  ugly  and  uncomfortable,  and  yet,  if 
you  are  an  exiled  Italian,  the  thought  of  it  will  bring 
your  heart  into  your  mouth. 

It  was  just  this,  of  which  I  have  given  the  unvar- 
nished but  faithful  jotting,  that  I  saw  this  morning 
as  I  came  up  from  my  bathe,  and  all  at  once  it 
struck  me  that  this,  after  all,  more  than  all  the 
forums  and  galleries,  and  gleams  of  past  splendour 
and  glory  of  light  and  landscape,  revealed  Italy. 
But  that  was  all  there  was  to  it,  the  sense  of  the 
lizard  and  the  dust  and  the  trattoria,  and  yet  never 
before  had  my  mistress  worn  so  translucent  a  veil, 
or  so  nearly  sho\Yn  me  the  secret  of  her  elusive 
charm.  Never  had  I  come  so  near  to  catching  it; 
for  the  moment,  as  the  Baedekers  went  by,  I 
thought  that  by  contrast  I  should  comprehend  at 
last  hat  it  is  that  make  to  me  the  sense  of  home  in 
the  '^dark  and  fierce  and  fickle  south,"  as  one  of  our 
Laureates  so  inappropriately  calls  it,  having  no 
more  sympathy  with  Italy  than  I  with  Lapland. 
For  the  moment  the  secret  was  trembling  in  the 
spirit,  ready  to  flower  in  the  understanding.  .  .  .  But 


MAY,  1914  11 

then  it  passed  away  again  in  the  dust  or  the  wine- 
smell,  and  when  I  tried  to  express  to  Francis  at 
lunch  in  beautiful  language  what  I  have  here  writ- 
ten, he  thought  it  over  impartially,  and  said:  "It 
sounds  like  when  you  all  but  sneeze,  and  can't  quite 
manage  it."  And  there  was  point  in  that  prosaic 
reflection:  the  secret  remained  inaccessible  some- 
where within  me,  like  the  sneeze. 

Francis  has  been  an  exceedingly  wise  person  in 
the  conduct  of  his  life.  Some  fifteen  years  ago  he 
settled,  much  to  the  dismay  of  his  uncle,  who 
thought  that  all  gentlemen  were  stockbrokers,  that 
he  liked  Italy  much  better  than  any  other  country 
in  the  world,  and  that,  of  all  the  towns  and  moun- 
tains and  plains  of  Italy,  he  loved  best  this  rocky 
pinnacle  of  an  island  that  rises  sheer  from  the  sap- 
phire in  the  mouth  of  the  Bay  of  Naples.  Thus, 
having  come  across  from  Naples  for  the  inside  of 
a  day,  he  telegraphed  to  his  hotel  for  his  luggage  and 
stopped  a  month.  After  a  brief  absence  in  England, 
feverish  with  interviews,  he  proceeded  to  stop  here 
for  a  year,  and,  when  that  year  was  over,  to  stop 
here  permanently.  He  was  always  unwell  in  Eng- 
land and  always  well  here;  there  was  no  material 
reason  why  he  should  ever  return  to  the  fogs,  nor 
any  moral  reason  except  that  the  English  idea  of 
duty  seems  to  be  inextricably  entwined  with  the 
necessity  of  doing  something  you  dislike  and  are 
quite  unfitted  for.  So  herein  he  showed  true  wis- 
dom, firstly,  in  knowing  what  he  liked,  and  secondly, 
in  doing  it.    For  many  otherwise  sensible  people 


12  UP  AND  DOWN 

have  not  the  slightest  idea  what  they  like,  and  a 
large  proportion  of  that  elect  remainder  have  not  the 
steadfastness  to  do  it.  But  Francis,  with  no  ties  that 
bound  him  to  the  island  of  England,  which  did  not 
suit  him  at  all,  had  the  good  sense  to  make  his  home 
in  this  island  of  Italy  that  did.  Otherwise  he  most 
certainly  would  have  lived  ansemically  in  an  office  in 
the  City,  and  have  amassed  money  that  he  did  not 
in  the  least  want.  And  though  it  was  thought  very 
odd  that  he  should  have  chosen  to  be  cheerful  and 
busy  here  rather  than  occupied  and  miserable  in 
London,  I  applaud  the  unworldliness  of  his  wisdom. 
He  settled  also  (which  is  a  rarer  wisdom)  that  he 
wanted  to  think,  and,  as  you  will  see  before  this 
record  of  diary  is  out,  he  succeeded  in  so  doing. 

Many  Mays  and  Junes  I  spent  with  him  here,  and 
six  months  ago  now,  while  I  was  groping  and  chok- 
ing in  the  fogs,  he  wrote  to  me,  saying  that  the  Villa 
Tiberiana,  at  which  we  had  for  years  cast  longing 
glances  as  at  a  castle  in  Spain,  was  to  be  let  on  lease. 
It  was  too  big  for  him  alone,  but  if  I  felt  inclined  to 
go  shares  in  the  rent,  we  might  take  it  together.  I 
sent  an  affirmative  telegram,  and  sat  stewing  with 
anxiety  till  I  received  his  favourable  reply.  So, 
when  a  fortnight  ago  I  returned  here,  I  made  my 
return  home  not  to  Italy  alone,  but  to  my  home  in 
Italy. 

The  Villa  Tiberiana,  though  not  quite  so  imperial 
as  it  sounds,  is  one  of  the  most  "amiable  dwellings." 
It  stands  high  on  the  hill-side  above  the  huddled, 
picturesque  little  town  of  Alatri,  and  is  approachable 


MAY,  1914  13 

only  by  a  steep  cobbled  path  that  winds  deviously 
between  other  scattered  houses  and  plots  of  vine- 
yard. Having  arrived  at  the  piazza  of  the  town,  the 
carriage  road  goes  no  further,  and  you  must  needs 
walk,  while  your  luggage  is  conveyed  up  by  strap- 
ping female  porters,  whom  on  their  arrival  you  re- 
ward with  soldi  and  refresh  with  wine.  White- 
washed and  thick-built,  two-storied  and  flat-roofed, 
it  crouches  behind  the  tall  rubble  wall  of  its  garden 
that  lies  in  terraces  below  it.  A  great  stone-pine 
rears  its  whispering  umbrella  in  the  middle  of  this 
plot,  and  now  in  the  May-time  of  the  year  there  is 
to  be  seen  scarcely  a  foot  of  the  earth  of  its  garden 
beds,  so  dense  is  the  tapestry  of  flowers  that  lies  em- 
broidered over  it.  For  here  in  the  far  south  of 
Europe,  the  droughts  of  summer  and  early  autumn 
render  unpractical  any  horticultural  legislation  with 
a  view  to  securing  colour  in  your  flower-beds  all  the 
year  round.  However  much  you  legislated,  you 
would  never  get  your  garden  to  be  gay  through  July 
and  August,  and  so,  resigning  yourself  to  emptiness 
then,  you  console  yourself  with  an  intoxication  of 
blossom  from  March  to  June.  And  never  was  a 
garden  so  drunk  with  colour  as  is  ours  to-day ;  never 
have  I  seen  so  outrageous  a  riot.  Nor  is  it  in  the 
garden-beds  alone  that  rose  and  carnation  and  holly- 
hock and  nasturtium  and  delphinium  unpunctually 
but  simultaneously  sing  and  blaze  together.  The 
southern  front  of  the  house  is  hidden  in  plumbago 
and  vines  with  green  seed-pearl  berries,  and  as  for 
the  long  garden  wall,  it  is  literally  invisible  under 


14  UP  AND  DOWN 

the  cloak  of  blue  morning-glory  that  decks  it  as  with 
a  raiment  from  foundation  to  coping-stone.  Every 
morning  fresh  battalions  of  blue  trumpets  deploy 
there  as  soon  as  the  sun  strikes  it,  and  often  as  I 
have  seen  it  thus,  I  cannot  bring  myself  to  believe 
that  it  is  real;  it  is  more  like  some  amazing  the- 
atrical decoration.  Beyond  on  the  further  side  lies 
the  orchard  of  fi  gand  peach,  and  I  observe  with  some 
emotion  that  the  figs,  like  the  lady  in  Pickwick,  are 
swelling  visibly. 

Within,  the  house  has  assumed  its  summer  toilet, 
which  is  another  way  of  saying  that  it  has  been  un- 
dressed; carpets  and  curtains  have  been  banished; 
doors  are  latched  back,  and  the  air  sweeps  softly  from 
end  to  end  of  it.  A  sitting-room  that  faces  south 
has  been  dismantled,  and  its  contents  put  in  the  big 
studio  that  looks  northwards,  and  even  in  the  height 
of  summer,  we  hope,  will  not  get  over-hot,  especially 
since  a  few  days  ago  we  had  the  roof  whitewashed 
and  thick  matting  hung  over  its  one  southern  win- 
dow. Breakfast  and  dinner,  now  that  the  true  May 
weather  has  begun,  we  have  on  the  terrace-top  of  the 
big  cistern  in  the  garden,  roofed  over  between  the 
pilasters  of  its  pergola  with  trellis,  through  which 
the  vineleaves  wriggle  and  wrestle.  But  now  at 
noon  it  is  too  hot  in  the  garden,  and  to-day  I  found 
lunch  ready  in  the  square  vaulted  little  dining-room, 
with  Pasqualino  bringing  in  macaroni  and  vine-leaf- 
stoppered  decanter,  and  Francis,  who  refrained  from 
bathing  this  morning  owing  to  the  Martha-cares  of 
the  household,  debating  with  Seraphina  (the  cook) 


MAY,  1914  15 

as  to  whether  the  plumbago  ought  not  to  be  pruned. 
It  has  come  right  into  the  room,  and,  as  Seraphina 
most  justly  remarks,  it  is  already  impossible  to  shut 
the  window.  But  since  we  shall  not  need  to  shut 
the  window  for  some  months  to  come,  I  give  my  vote 
to  support  Francis,  and  suffer  the  plumbago  to  do 
exactly  as  it  likes.  So  we  are  two  to  one,  and 
Seraphina  takes  her  defeat,  wreathed  in  smiles,  and 
says  it  is  not  her  fault  if  burglars  come.  That  is  a 
poor  argument,  for  there  are  no  burglars  in  Alatri, 
and,  besides,  there  is  nothing  to  steal  except  the 
grand  piano.  .  .  . 

Just  now  social  duties  weigh  rather  heavily  on 
Francis  and  me,  for  the  British  colony  in  Alatri  con- 
sider that,  as  we  have  moved  into  a  new  house,  they 
must  behave  to  us  as  if  we  were  new-comers,  and 
have  been  paying  formal  visits.  These  civilities 
must  be  responded  to,  and  we  have  had  two  house- 
warmings  and  are  going  to  have  a  third  and  last  to- 
day. The  house-warmings  should  perhaps  be  de- 
scribed as  garden-warmings,  since  we  have  tea  on 
the  terrace  in  great  pomp,  and  then  get  cool  in  the 
house  afterwards.  Rather  embarrassing  incidents 
have  occurred,  as,  for  instance,  when  Miss  Machono- 
chie  came  to  a  garden-warming  the  day  before  yes- 
terday. She  is  a  red  amiable  Scotchwoman,  with  a 
prodigious  Highland  accent,  which  Francis,  whom 
she  has  for  years  tried  to  marry,  imitates  to  perfec- 
tion. So  perfect,  indeed,  is  his  mimicry  of  it,  that 
when  Miss  Machonochie  appeared  and  began  to  talk 
about  the  wee  braw  garden,  Pasqualino,  who  was 


16  UP  AND  DOWN 

bringing  out  a  fresh  teapot,  had  to  put  it  hurriedly 
down  on  the  ground,  and  run  back  again  into  the 
kitchen,  from  which  issued  peal  after  peal  of  laugh- 
ter. So  overcome  was  he,  that  after  a  second  at- 
tempt (Miss  Machonochie  being  still  full  of  conver- 
sation) he  had  to  retire  again,  and  Seraphina  must 
serve  us  till  Miss  Machonochie  went  away.  This 
she  did  not  do  for  a  long  time,  since,  after  just  a 
little  vermouth,  she  wanted  no  persuasion  at  all  to 
sing  a  quantity  of  Scotch  ditties  about  Bonnie 
Charlie  and  Loch  Lomond,  and  other  beautiful  and 
interesting  topics.  Technically,  I  should  say  that 
she  had  one  note  in  her  voice,  which  she  was  in  a 
great  hurry  to  get  on  to  and  very  loath  to  leave. 
This  had  an  amazing  timbre  like  a  steam  siren,  and 
as  I  played  her  accompaniment  for  her,  my  left  ear 
sang  all  the  evening  afterwards.  But  her  accent 
was  indubitably  Highland,  and  Mrs.  Macgregor  de- 
clared she  could  smell  the  heather.  I  was  glad  of 
that,  for  I  was  afraid  that  what  I  smelled  (it  being 
now  near  dinner-time)  was  the  fritura  that  Sera- 
phina was  preparing  in  the  kitchen. 

This  island-life  is  the  busiest  sort  of  existence, 
though  I  suppose  a  stockbroker  would  say  it  was  the 
laziest,  and,  in  consequence,  these  social  efforts  give 
one  a  sense  of  rush  that  I  have  never  felt  in  London. 
The  whole  of  the  morning  is  taken  up  with  bathing 
(of  which  more  presently),  and  on  the  way  up  you 
call  at  the  post-office  for  papers  and  letters.  The 
letters  it  is  impossible  to  answer  immediately,  since 
there  is  so  much  to  do  and  the  pile  on  my  table  grows 


MAY,  1914  17 

steadily,  waiting  for  a  wet  day.  After  lunch  you 
read  the  papers,  and  then,  following  the  example  of 
the  natives,  who  may  be  supposed  to  know  the 
proper  way  of  living  in  their  own  climate,  you  have 
a  good  siesta.  After  tea,  the  English  habit  of  physi- 
cal exercise  asserts  itself,  and  we  walk  or  water  the 
garden  till  dinner.  After  dinner  it  is,  I  take  it,  per- 
missible to  have  a  little  relaxation,  and  we  either 
play  a  game  or  two  of  picquet  up  here  in  the  studio, 
or  more  often  stroll  down  to  the  piazza  and  play  in 
the  cafe,  or  attend  a  thrilling  cinematograph  show. 
In  the  country  it  is  natural  to  go  to  bed  early,  and, 
behold,  it  is  to-morrow  almost  before  you  knew  it 
was  to-day.  When  it  rains,  or  when  the  weather 
is  cold,  it  is  possible  to  do  some  work,  and  Francis 
asserts  that  he  does  an  immense  quantity  during  the 
winter.  I  daresay  that  is  so;  I  should  be  the  last 
person  to  quarrel  with  the  statement,  since  he  so 
amiably  agrees  that  it  is  impossible  to  behave  like 
that  in  the  summer. 

The  mind  is  equally  well  occupied,  for  we  always 
take  down  books  to  the  bathing-place,  and  for  the 
rest  the  affairs  of  the  island,  Pasquahno  and  his  fam- 
ily, Seraphina  and  her  family,  the  fact  that  Mrs. 
Macgregor  has  dismissed  her  cook,  that  Mr.  Tarn 
has  built  a  pergola,  completely  absorb  the  intellec- 
tual and  speculative  faculties.  What  happens  out- 
side the  island  seems  not  to  matter  at  all.  England, 
with  its  fogs  and  its  fuss,  is  less  real  and  much  fur- 
ther away  than  the  hazy  shores  of  the  mainland, 
where  all  that  concerns  us  is  the  smoke  of  Vesuvius, 


18  UP  AND  DOWN 

which  during  the  last  week  has  been  increasing  in 
volume,  and  now  stands  up  above  the  mountain  like 
a  huge  stone-pine.  The  wiseacres  shake  their  heads 
and  prophesy  an  eruption,  but  che  sara,  sard — if  it 
comes,  it  comes,  and  meantime  it  is  a  marvellous 
thing  to  see  the  red  level  rays  at  sunset  turn  the 
edges  of  the  smoke-cloud  into  wreaths  of  rose-colour 
and  crimson ;  the  denser  portions  they  are  unable  to 
pierce,  and  can  but  lay  a  wash  of  colour  on  them, 
through  which  the  black  shows  like  a  thing  of  night- 
mare. In  the  calm  weather,  which  we  have  been 
having,  this  stone-pine  of  smoke  is  reflected  in  the 
bay,  and  the  great  tree  of  vapour  steals  slowly  across 
the  water,  nearer  and  nearer  every  day.  The  ob- 
servatory reports  tell  us  that  its  topmost  wreaths 
are  eight  vertical  miles  away  from  the  earth.  Some- 
times when  it  is  quite  calm  here  we  see  these  tops 
torn  by  winds  and  blown  about  into  fantastic  foliage, 
but  the  solidity  of  the  trunk  remains  untouched. 

But  Vesuvius  is  far  away,  twenty-five  miles  at 
the  least,  and  here  in  this  siren,  lotus-eating  island 
nothing  across  the  sea  really  interests  us.  But  island 
affairs,  as  I  have  said,  are  perfectly  absorbing,  and 
during  this  last  fortnight  we  have  been  in  vertigin- 
ous heights  of  excitement.  Only  yesterday  occurred 
the  finale  of  all  this  business,  and  Francis  thinks 
with  excellent  reason,  that  he  is  accomplice  to  a 
felony.  The  person  chiefly  concerned  was  Luigi, 
nephew  of  our  cook  Seraphina,  who  till  six  months 
ago  was  valet,  butler,  major-domo,  and  gardener  to 
Francis.     Then,  in  a  misguided  moment,  he  thought 


MAY,  1914  19 

to  "better  himself"  by  going  as  hall-boy  to  the  Grand 
Hotel  in  Alatri.  There  were  tips,  no  doubt,  in  the 
tourist  season  at  the  Grand  Hotel,  but  there  was 
also  trouble.     It  happened  like  this. 

From  the  day  of  the  supposed  crime  the  sympathy 
of  the  island  generally  was  on  the  side  of  Luigi,  in 
the  fiery  trials  that  awaited  him.  It  was  felt  to  be 
intolerable  that  a  boy  who  had  just  changed  into 
his  best  clothes,  and  had  taken  a  carnation  from  one 
of  the  tables  in  the  dining-room,  and  was  actually 
going  out  of  the  hotel  gate  to  spend  the  afternoon 
of  the  festa  in  the  Piazza,  should  have  been  sum- 
marily ordered  back  by  the  porter,  and  commanded 
to  show  a  fat  white  German  gentleman,  who  was 
staying  in  the  hotel,  the  way  to  the  bathing-place  at 
the  Palazzo  a  mare,  and  carry  his  towels  and  bathing- 
dress  for  him,  the  latter  of  which  included  sandals, 
so  that  the  fat  white  gentleman  should  not  hurt  his 
fat  white  toes  on  the  shingle.  This  abominable  per- 
sonage had  also  preferred,  in  the  unaccountable 
manner  of  foreigners  to  go  all  the  way  on  foot,  in- 
stead of  taking  a  victoria,  which  would  have  con- 
veyed him  three-quarters  of  the  distance  and  saved 
much  time.  But  he  would  go  on  his  feet,  and  being 
very  fat  had  walked  at  tortoise-pace  along  the  dusty 
road,  under  a  large  green  umbrella,  perspiring  pro- 
fusely, and  stopping  every  now  and  then  to  sit  down. 
There  was  Luigi  standing  by,  carrying  the  sandals 
and  the  bathing-dress  and  the  towels,  while  all  the 
time  the  precious  moments  of  this  holiday,afternoon 
were  slipping  along,  and  the  Piazza,  where  Luigi 


20  UP  AND  DOWN 

should  have  been  (having  been  granted  a  half -holi- 
day on  account  of  the  festa),  was  full  of  his  young 
friends,  male  and  female,  all  in  their  best  clothes, 
conversing  and  laughing  together,  and  standing 
about  and  smoking  an  occasional  cigarette,  in  the 
orthodox  fashion  of  a  holiday  afternoon.  Then, 
after  this  interminable  walk,  during  which  the  Ger- 
man gentleman  kept  asking  the  baffled  Luigi  a  series 
of  questions  in  an  unknown  tongue,  and  appeared 
singularly  annoyed  when  the  boy  was  unable  to 
answer  him  except  in  a  Tower-of-Babel  manner,  he 
drew  three  coppers  from  his  pocket,  and  after  a  pro- 
longer  mental  struggle,  presented  Luigi  with  two  of 
them,  as  a  reward  for  his  services.  He  then  told 
him  that  he  could  find  his  way  up  again  alone,  and 
having  undressed,  swam  majestically  off  round  the 
promontory  of  rock  that  enclosed  the  bathing-beach. 

An  hour  afterwards  Luigi,  defrauded  of  half  his 
holiday  afternoon,  returned  to  the  gaiety  and  com- 
panionship of  the  Piazza,  and  recounted  to  an  in- 
dignant audience  this  outrageous  affair.  But  some 
time  during  the  afternoon,  Francis,  looking  out  of 
his  bedroom  window  after  his  siesta,  thought  he 
saw  Luigi  slipping  across  the  garden  of  the  Villa 
Tiberiana,  and  climbing  down  over  the  wall  at  the 
bottom.  He  says  he  was  not  sure,  being  still  sleepy, 
and  when  he  shouted  Luigi's  name  out  of  his  win- 
dow, there  came  no  answer. 

Luigi  returned  to  the  Grand  Hotel  in  time  to  get 
into  his  livery  again  before  dinner,  and  on  entrance 
was  summoned  into  the  manager's  bureau,  where  he 


MAY,  1914  21 

was  confronted  with  his  Teutonic  taskmaster  of  the 
afternoon,  and  charged  with  having  picked  his 
pocket  while  he  was  bathing.  A  portfolio  was  miss- 
ing, containing  a  note  for  a  hundred  liras,  and  this 
the  German  gentleman  was  gutturally  certain  he 
had  on  his  person  when  he  started  off  to  bathe,  and 
equally  certain  that  he  had  lost  when  he  came  to 
dress  for  dinner.  His  certainty  was  partly  founded 
on  the  fact  that  he  had  tipped  the  boy  when  they 
arrived  at  the  Palazzo  a  mare,  and  to  have  tipped 
him  he  must  have  had  his  money  in  his  pocket.  In 
answer,  Luigi  absolutely  denied  the  charge,  and  then 
made  a  dreadful  mistake  by  suggesting  that  the 
Signor  had  a  hole  in  his  pocket,  through  which  the 
portfolio  had  slipped.  This  was  quite  the  most  un- 
fortunate thing  he  could  have  said,  for,  as  the  Ger- 
man gentleman  instantly  demonstrated,  the  hole  in 
his  pocket  was  undoubtedly  there.  But  how,  so  he 
overpoweringly  urged,  could  Luigi  have  known  there 
was  a  hole  there,  unless  he  had  been  examining  his 
pockets?  And  an  hour  later  poor  Luigi,  with  gyves 
upon  his  wrists,  was  ignominiously  led  through  the 
Piazza,  all  blazing  with  acetylene  lights  and  resonant 
with  the  blare  of  the  band,  and  was  clapped  into 
prison  to  await  the  formal  charge. 

Arrived  there,  he  was  searched,  and  a  similar  ex- 
amination was  made  in  his  room  at  his  mother's 
house,  where  he  went  to  sleep  at  night,  but  nothing 
that  ever  so  remotely  resembled  a  German  portfolio 
or  a  note  for  a  hundred  liras  was  found,  and  he  still 
doggedly  denied  his  guilt.     Then,  since  nothing  in- 


22  UP  AND  DOWN 

criminating  could  be  got  out  of  him,  the  key  was 
turned,  while  through  the  small  high-grated  window 
came  the  sound  of  the  band  in  the  Piazza  for  this 
festa  night.  Later,  by  standing  on  his  board  bed, 
he  could  see  the  fiery  segment  of  the  aspiring  path 
of  the  rockets,  as  they  ascended  from  the  peak  above 
the  Piazza,  and  listen  to  the  echo  of  their  explosions 
flap  and  buffet  against  the  cliffs  of  Monte  Gennaro. 
But  it  was  from  prison  that  he  saw  and  heard. 

Outside  in  the  Piazza  the  tragic  history  of  his 
incarceration  formed  a  fine  subject  for  talk,  and 
public  opinion,  which  cheerfully  supposed  him 
guilty,  found  extenuating  circumstances  that  almost 
amounted  to  innocence.  The  provocation  of  being 
obliged  to  spend  the  best  part  of  a  festa  afternoon 
in  walking  down  to  the  sea  with  a  fat  white  Tedesco 
was  really  immense,  and  the  reward  of  twopence  for 
those  lost  hours  of  holiday  was  nothing  less  than  an 
insult.  What  wonder  if  Luigi  for  a  moment  mislaid 
his  honesty,  what  wonder  if  when  so  smooth-faced 
and  ready-made  a  temptation  came,  he  just  yielded 
to  it  for  a  second?  Certainly  it  was  wrong  to  steal, 
everyone  knows  that — Mamma  mia,  what  a  rocket, 
what  a  bellezza  of  stars! — but  it  was  also  primarily 
wrong  to  dock  a  jolly  boy  of  his  promised  half- 
holiday.  No  wonder,  when  the  German  signor — 
ah,  it  was  the  same,  no  doubt,  as  was  sick  in 
Antonio's  carriage  the  other  day,  and  refused  to  pay 
for  a  new  rug — no  wonder,  when  that  fat-head,  that 
pumpkin  (for  who  but  a  pumpkin  would  carry  a 
hundred  liras  about  with  him?)  swam  away  round 


MAY,  1914  23 

the  corner  of  those  rocks,  that  Wuigi's  hand'just  paid 
a  visit  to  his  great  pockets  to  see  if  he  was  as  poor 
as  that  miserable  tip  of  twopence  seemed  to  say! 
Then  he  found  the  portfolio,  and  turned  bitter  with 
the  thought  of  the  quattro  soldi  which  was  all  that 
had  been  given  him  for  his  loss  of  the  half -holiday. 
Ah,  look !  Was  it  really  a  wheel  like  that  on  which 
Santa  Caterina  had  been  bound?  How  she  must 
have  spun  round!  What  giddiness!  What  burn- 
ing! A  steadfast  soul  not  to  have  consented  to  wor- 
ship Apollo;  no  wonder  that  Holy  Church  made  a 
saint  of  her.  But  what  could  Luigi  have  done  with 
the  portfolio  and  the  note  for  a  hundred  liras?  He 
had  been  searched  and  on  him  was  nothing  found; 
his  room  had  been  searched,  but  there  was  nothing 
there.  Was  it  possible  that  he  was  innocent,  il 
poverof  Could  the  sick  German  gentleman  really 
have  lost  his  foolish  pocket-book  by  natural  means 
as  he  came  up  from  his  bathe?  It  might  be  worth 
while  taking  a  walk  there  to-morrow,  always  keeping 
a  peeled  eye  on  the  margin  of  the  path.  It  was 
possible,  after  all,  that  he  had  lost  his  pocket-book 
all  by  himself,  without  aid  from  Luigi,  for  the  hole 
in  his  pocket  was  admitted,  and  shown  to  the  man- 
ager of  the  Grand  Hotel.  But  then  there  was  Luigi's 
fatal  knowledge  of  the  hole  in  his  pocket.  That  was 
very  bad;  that  looked  like  guilt.  If  only  the  boy 
had  held  his  tongue  and  not  said  that  fatal  thing! 
He  only  suggested  that  there  was  a  hole  in  his 
pocket?  No,  no;  he  said  there  was  a  hole  in  his 
pocket,  didn't  he?    What  a  lesson  to  keep  the  tongue 


24  UP  AND  DOWN 

still !  Luigi  had  always  a  lot  to  learn  about  keeping 
the  tongue  still,  for  who  will  soon  forget  the  dread- 
ful things  he  shouted  out  last  winter  at  the  priest, 
his  mother's  cousin's  uncle,  when  he  had  smacked 
his  head?  They  were  quite  true,  too,  like  the  hole 
in  the  pocket.  .  .  .  Ah,  there  is  the  great  bomb. 
Pouf !  How  it  echoes!  So  the  fireworks  are  over! 
Buona  nottef  Buona  notte! 

All  this,  while  lounging  in  the  Piazza,  listening  to 
the  band  and  watching  the  fireworks,  I  heard  from 
the  tobacconist  and  the  barber  and  a  few  other 
friends.  I  coupled  with  this  information  that  which 
Francis  told  me  as  we  strolled  up  homewards  again, 
namely,  that  he  thought  he  had  seen  Luigi  that 
afternoon  slipping  through  the  garden.  He  was  not 
sure  about  it,  so  leaving  it  aside,  he  recalled  a  few 
facts  about  Luigi  when  he  was  in  his  service.  He 
used  to  hurry  over  his  house-work  always,  for  he 
preferred  his  role  of  gardener  to  all  others,  and  used 
to  wander  among  the  flower  beds,  making  plants 
comfortable,  and  giving  this  one  a  drop  of  water, 
and  that  a  fresh  piece  of  stick  to  lean  on.  Then  he 
would  make  a  mud  pie  by  turning  on  the  cistern 
tap,  and  plant  verbenas  in  it,  or  in  more  mysterious 
fashion  made  caches  in  a  hole  behind  loose  masonry 
in  the  cistern  wall.  Francis  has  got  a  just  appre- 
ciation of  the  secrecy  and  rapture  of  making  caches, 
and  never  let  Luigi  know  that  he  was  aware  of  this 
hidden  treasure.  But  after  Luigi  had  gone  home 
to  his  mother's  of  an  evening,  he  would  yield  to 
curiosity  and   see  what  the  boy  had  put  there. 


MAY,  1914  25 

Sometimes  there  would  be  a  matchbox,  or  a  pilfered 
cigarette,  or  a  piece  of  string  carefully  wrapped  up 
in  paper.  .  .  .  And  now  poor  Luigi  was  behind  his 
grated  window,  and  Seraphina,  with  deepest  sar- 
casm, said  that  this  was  what  he  called  bettering 
himself.  He  would  have  done  better  to  have  done 
worse  and  remained  at  the  Villa  Tiberiana  in  the 
service  of  the  Signori. 

But  suddenly  next  day,  like  a  change  in  the 
weather  coming  from  a  cloudless  sky,  a  fresh  train 
of  thought  was  suggested  by  the  Luigi-episode,  and 
the  mention  of  the  lottery,  and  how  the  various  in- 
cidents and  personages  bore  on  the  luck  of  numbers. 
On  the  instant  Luigi  and  all  he  had  done  or  not  done 
ceased  to  interest  anybody  except  in  so  far  as  the 
events  were  concerned  with  the  science  and  interpre- 
tation of  numbers  in  the  lottery  as  set  forth  in  the 
amazing  volume  called  ^'Smorfia."  There  you  will 
find  what  any  numeral  means,  so  that  should  an 
earthquake  occur  or  an  eclipse,  the  wise  speculator 
looks  out  "earthquake"  or  "eclipse"  in  "Smorfia," 
and  at  the  next  drawing  of  the  National  Lottery  or 
the  lottery  at  Naples  backs  the  numbers  to  which 
these  significations  are  attached.  As  it  happened, 
no  event  of  striking  local  interest  had  occurred  in 
Alatri  since,  in  April  last,  the  carpenter  in  the  Corso 
Agosto  had  unsuccessfully  attempted  to  cut  his 
throat  with  a  razor,  after  successfully  smothering  his 
aunt.  This  had  been  the  last  occasion  on  which 
there  was  clear  guidance  as  to  the  choice  of  numbers 
in  the  Naples  lottery,  and  nobody  of  a  sporting  turn 


26  UP  AND  DOWN 

of  mind  who  had  the  smallest  sense  of  the  oppor- 
tunities life  offers  had  failed  to  back  No.  17,  which 
among  other  things  means  "aunt,"  and  numbers 
which  signified  "razor,"  "throat,"  "blood"  and 
"bolster."  Nor  had  "Smorfia,"  the  dictionary  that 
gives  this  useful  information,  disappointed  its  ad- 
herents, for  Carmine,  Pasquahno's  brother,  had 
backed  the  numbers  that  meant  "throat,"  "razor," 
"carpenter,"  "aunt"  and  "Sunday,"  the  last  being 
the  day  on  which  those  distressing  events  occurred, 
and  went  to  bed  that  night  to  dream  of  the  glories 
which  awaited  him  who  nominated  a  quinteryio  secco. 
(This  means  that  you  back  five  numbers,  all  of  which 
come  out  in  the  order  named.)  Once,  so  succulent 
tradition  said,  a  baker  at  the  Marina  had  accom- 
plished this  enviable  feat,  after  which  Alatri  saw 
him  no  more,  for  his  reward  was  a  million  francs,  a 
marquisate  and  an  estate  in  Calabria,  where  soon 
afterwards  he  was  murdered  for  the  sake  of  his  mil- 
lion. This  stimulating  page  of  history  was  not 
wholly  repeated  in  the  case  of  Carmine  and  the  car- 
penter's aunt,  but  by  his  judicious  selection  he  had 
certainly  reaped  two  hundred  francs  where  he  had 
only  sowed  five.  The  doctor  also,  who  had  attended 
the  abortive  suicide,  had  done  very  well  by  backing 
salient  features  of  the  tragedy,  and  astute  supersti- 
tion had,  on  the  whole,  been  adequately  rewarded. 

Next  day,  accordingly,  the  Piazza  seethed  with 
excitement  as  to  the  due  application  of  the  Luigi 
episode  to  the  enchanting  Lorelei  of  the  lottery.  It 
had  magnificent  and  well-marked  features;  "Smor- 


MAY,  1914  27 

fia"  shouted  with  opportunities.  First  of  all,  there 
was  Luigi  himself  to  be  backed,  and,  as  everyone 
knew;  "boy"  was  the  number  2.  Next  there  was 
the  German  gentleman.  ("Michele,  turn  up  'Ger- 
man.' ")  Then  there  was  "pocket"  and  "hole"  and 
"portfolio"  and  "bathe.'  All  these  were  likely 
chances.  Other  aspects  of  the  affair  struck  the  seri- 
ous mind.  "Festa"  was  connected  with  it;  so,  too, 
was  "prison,"  where  now  Luigi  languished.  Then 
there  was  "theft"  and  "denial."  Here  were  abun- 
dant materials  for  a  quinterno  secco,  when  once  the 
initial  difficulty  of  selecting  the  right  numbers  was 
surmounted.  And  marquisates  and  millions  hovered 
on  the  horizon,  ready  to  move  up  and  descend  on 
Alatri. 

Among  those  who  were  thus  interested  in  the 
affaire  Luigi  from  the  purely  lottery  point  of  view, 
there  was  no  more  eager  student  than  the  boy's 
mother.  Maria  was  a  confirmed  and  steadfast  gam- 
bler, of  that  optimistic  type  that  feels  itself  amply 
rewarded  for  the  exj>enditure  of  ten  liras  on  a  series  of 
numbers  that  prove  quite  barren  of  reward,  if  at  the 
eleventh  attempt  she  gained  five.  She  had  been  to 
see  her  son  in  prison,  had  wept  a  little  and  consoled 
him  a  little,  had  smuggled  a  packet  of  cigarettes  into 
his  hand,  and  had  reminded  him  that  the  same  sort 
of  thing,  though  far  worse,  had  happened  to  his 
father,  with  whom  be  peace.  For  at  most  Luigi 
woiild  get  but  a  couple  of  months  in  prison,  owing 
to  his  youth  (and  the  cool  of  the  cell  was  really  not 
unpleasant  in  the  hot  weather),  and  the  severity  of 


28  UP  AND  DOWN 

his  sentence  would  doubtless  be  much  mitigated  if 
he  would  only  say  where  he  had  hidden  the  portfolio 
and  the  hundred  liras.  But  nothing  would  induce 
Luigi  to  do  this;  he  still  firmly  adhered  to  his  inno- 
cence, and  repeated  ad  nauseam  his  unfortunate  re- 
mark that  there  was  a  hole  in  the  fat  German's 
pocket. 

Expostulation  being  useless,  and  Luigi  being 
fairly  comfortable,  Maria  left  him,  and  on  her  way 
home  gave  very  serious  consideration  to  the  features 
of  the  case  which  she  intended  to  back  at  the  lottery. 
She  had  ascertained  that  Luigi  had  his  new  clothes 
on  (which  was  the  sort  of  flower  on  which  that 
butterfly  Chance  alighted),  and  on  looking  up  the 
number  of  "new  clothes,  novelty,  freshness/'  found 
that  it  was  8.  Then,  on  further  study  of  ''Smorfia," 
she  learned  that  the  word  "thief"  was  represented 
by  No.  28,  and  following  her  own  train  of  thought, 
discovered  that  No.  88  meant  "liar."  Here  was  a 
strange  thing,  especially  when,  with  an  emotional 
spasm,  she  remembered  that  "boy"  was  No.  2.  Here 
was  the  whole  adventure  nutshelled  for  her.  For 
was  there  not  a  boy  (2)  who  put  on  his  new  clothes 
(8),  showed  himself  a  thief  (28)  and  subsequently  a 
liar  (88)  ?  2  and  8  covered  the  whole  thing,  and 
almost  throttled  by  the  thread  of  coincidence,  she 
hurried  down  to  the  lottery-office,  aflame  with  the 
premonition  of  some  staggering  success,  and  invested 
fifteen  liras  in  the  numbers  2,  8,  28,  88. 

She  lingered  in  the  Piazza  a  little,  after  laying  this 
touching  garland  on  the  altar  of  luck,  to  receive  the 


MAY,  1914  29 

condolences  of  her  friends  on  Luigi's  wickedness,  and 
had  a  kind  word  thrown  to  her  by  Signor  Gelotti,  the 
great  lawyer,  who  had  come  over  for  a  week's  holi- 
day to  his  native  island.  Ah,  there  was  a  man! 
Why,  if  he  got  you  into  the  witness-box,  he  could 
make  you  contradict  yourself  before  you  knew  you 
had  opened  your  mouth.  Give  him  a  couple  of 
minutes  at  you,  and  he  would  make  you  say  that  the 
man  you  had  described  as  having  a  black  coat  and  a 
moustache  had  no  coat  at  all  and  whiskers,  and  that, 
though  you  had  met  him  at  three  o'clock  precisely 
in  the  Piazza,  you  had  just  informed  the  Court  that 
at  that  hour  you  were  having  a  siesta  in  your  own 
house.  Luigi's  father  had  at  one  time  been  in  his 
service,  and  though  he  had  left  it,  handcuffed,  for 
a  longer  period  of  imprisonment  than  his  son  was 
threatened  with.  Lawyer  Gelotti  had  always  a  nod 
and  a  smile  for  his  widow,  and  to-day  a  pleasant 
little  joke  about  heredity.  Ah,  if  Lawyer  Gelotti 
would  only  take  up  the  case!  He  would  muddle 
everybody  up  finely,  and  in  especial  that  fat  Ger- 
man fellow,  who,  like  his  beastly,  swaggering,  trucu- 
lent race,  was  determined  to  press  home  his  charge. 
But  Lawyer  Gelotti,  as  all  the  world  knew,  never 
held  up  his  forefinger  at  a  witness  under  a  thousand 
liras.  What  a  forefinger.  It  made  you  tell  two 
more  lies  in  order  to  escape  from  each  lie  that  you 
had  already  told. 

Three  days  passed,  while  still  Luigi  languished 
behind  bars,  and  then  a  sudden  thrill  of  excitement 
emanating  from  the  oifices  of  the  lottery  swept  over 


30  UP  AND  DOWN 

the  island.  For  the  Naples  lottery  had  been  drawn, 
and  the  five  winning  numbers  were  issued,  which  in 
due  order  of  their  occurrence  were  2,  8,  28,  4,  91. 
Alatri  grew  rosy  with  prospective  riches,  for  in  this 
affaire  Luigi  it  would  have  been  slapping  the  face  of 
the  Providence  that  looks  after  lotteries  not  to  have 
backed  No.  2  (boy)  and  No.  28  (thief).  At  least 
ten  dutiful  folk  had  done  that.  But — che  peccato — 
why  did  we  not  all  back  No.  8,  as  Luigi's  mother 
had  done,  for  we  all  knew  that  Luigi  must  have  had 
his  new  clothes  on,  as  did  every  boy  on  a  festaf 
What  a  thing  it  is  to  use  rightly  the  knowledge  you 
possess !  The  lucky  woman !  She  had  won  a  terno, 
for  the  first  three  numbers  she  backed  came  out  in 
the  order  she  nominated.  Never  was  such  a  thing 
seen  since  the  days  of  the  classical  baker!  Why,  her 
ierno  would  be  worth  three  thousand  liras  at  least, 
which  was  next  door  to  the  title  of  a  marchioness. 
But  No.  91  now:  what  does  No.  91  mean?  Quick, 
turn  it  up  in  ''Smorfia"!  Who  has  a  ''Smorfia?" 
Ernesto,  the  tobacconist,  of  course,  but  he  is  a  mean 
man,  and  will  not  lend  his  "Smorfia"  to  any  who 
does  not  buy  a  packet  of  cigarettes.  Never  mind, 
let  us  have  both;  a  cigarette  is  always  a  cigarette. 
There !  No.  91 !  What  does  No.  91  signify?  Dio ! 
What  a  lot  of  meanings!  "The  man  in  the  moon" 
.  .  .  "the  hairs  on  the  tail  of  an  elephant"  .  .  .  "an 
empty  egg-shell."  .  .  .  Who  ever  heard  the  like? 
There  is  no  sense  in  such  a  number!  And  No.  4 — 
what  does  No.' 4  mean?  Why,  the  very  first  mean- 
ing of  all  is  "truth."    There  is  a  curious  thing  when 


MAY,  1914  31 

we  all  thought  that  Luigi  was  telling  lies!  And  No. 
4,  look  you,  was  the  fourth  number  that  came  out. 
It  would  have  been  simple  to  conjecture  that  No.  4 
would  be  No.  4.  Pity  that  we  did  not  think  of  that 
last  week.  But  it  is  easy  to  be  wise  after  the  event, 
as  the  bridegroom  said. 

The  talk  on  the  Piazza  rose  to  ever  loftier  peaks 
of  triumph  as  fresh  beneficiaries  of  Luigi,  who  had 
made  a  few  liras  over  "boy"  and  "thief,"  joined  the 
chattering  groups.  He  had  done  very  well  for  his 
friends,  had  poor  Luigi,  though  "pocket"  and  "port- 
folio" had  brought  in  nothing  to  their  backers.  And 
it  was  like  him — already  Luigi  was  considered  direct- 
ly responsible  for  these  windfalls — it  was  like  him 
to  have  turned  up  that  ridiculous  No.  91,  with  its 
man  in  the  moon,  and  its  empty  egg-shell.  Luigi, 
the  gay  ragazzo,  loved  that  extravagant  sort  of  joke, 
of  which  the  point  was  that  there  was  no  point,  but 
which  made  everybody  laugh,  as  when  he  afl&xed  a 
label,  "Three  liras  complete,"  to  the  fringe  of  Donna 
Margherita's  new  shawl  from  Naples  as  she  walked 
about  the  Piazza,  showing  it  off  and  never  guessing 
what  so  many  smiles  meant.  But  No.  4,  which 
stood  for  "truth,"  it  was  strange  that  No.  4  should 
have  turned  up,  and  that  nobody  dreamed  of  sup- 
posing that  Luigi  was  telling  the  truth.  His  mother, 
for  all  her  winnings,  must  be  finely  vexed  that  she 
had  not  trusted  her  son's  word,  and  backed  "truth," 
instead  of  putting  her  money  on  "liar."  Why, 
if  she  backed  "truth,"  she  would  have  gained  a 
qicatemo,  and  God  knows  how  many  liras!     Ah, 


32  UP  AND  DOWN 

there  she  is!  Let  us  go  and  congratulate  the  good 
soul.  Her  winnings  will  make  up  to  her  for  having 
a  son  as  well  as  a  husband  who  was  a  thief. 

But  Luigi's  mother  was  in  a  hot  haste.  She  had 
put  on  all  her  best  clothes,  not,  as  was  at  first  con- 
jectured, because  in  the  affluence  that  had  come  to 
her  they  had  been  instantly  degraded  into  second- 
best,  but  because  she  was  making  a  business  call  on 
Lawyer  Gelotti.  She  was  not  one  to  turn  her  broad 
back  on  her  own  son — though  it  is  true  that  she  had 
confidently  selected  No.  88  with  its  signification  of 
"liar" — and  if  the  satanic  skill  of  Lawyer  Gelotti 
could  get  Luigi  off,  that  skill  was  going  to  be  invoked 
for  his  defence.  A  hundred  thanks,  a  hundred  greet- 
ings to  everybody,  but  she  had  no  time  for  conver- 
sation just  now.  Lawyer  Gelotti  must  be  seen  at 
once,  if  he  was  at  home;  if  not,  she  must  just  sit  on 
his  doorstep  and  wait  for  him.  Yes;  she  had  heard 
that  a  thousand  liras  was  his  fee,  and  he  should  have 
it,  if  that  was  right  and  proper.  There  was  plenty 
more  where  they  came  from!  And  this  bravura 
passage  pleased  the  Piazza;  it  showed  the  gaiety 
and  swagger  proper  to  a  lady  of  property. 

In  due  course  followed  the  event  which  Alatri  was 
quite  prepared  for  when  it  knew  that  Lawyer  Gelotti 
was  engaged  on  Luigi's  behalf,  and  that  the  full 
blast  of  his  hurricane  of  interrogations  would  be 
turned  on  the  fat  German  gentleman.  Never  was 
there  such  a  tearing  to  shreds  of  apparently  stout 
evidence;  its  fragments  were  scattered  to  all  points 
of  the  compass  like  the  rocket-stars  which  Luigi  had 


MAY,  1914  33 

watched  from  his  grated  window.  The  Tedpsco 
was  forced  to  allow  that  he  had  not  looked  in  his 
pockets,  to  see  if  his  portfolio  was  safe,  till  full  three 
hours  after  he  had  returned  from  his  bathe.  What 
had  he  done  in  those  three  hours?  He  did  not 
know?  Then  the  Court  would  guess!  (That  was 
nasty ! )  Again  he  had  told  the  manager  of  the  hotel 
that  he  knew  he  had  his  portfolio  with  him  when 
he  went  to  bathe,  because  he  had  tipped  the  boy. 
Ah,  that  wonderful  tip !  Was  it,  or  was  it  not,  two- 
pence? Yes:  Lawyer  Gelotti  thought  so!  Two- 
pence for  carrying  a  basket  of  towels  and  a  bathing 
costume  and  two  elephant  sandals  all  over  the  island ! 
Tante  grazie!  But  was  it  really  his  custom  to  carry 
coppers  in  his  portfolio?  Did  he  not  usually  carry 
pence  loose  in  a  pocket?  Had  he  ever  to  his  knowl- 
edge carried  pennies  in  his  portfolio?  Would  he 
swear  that  he  had?  Come,  sir,  do  not  keep  the 
Court  waiting  for  a  simple  answer!  Very  good! 
This  magnificent  tip  did  not  come  out  of  the  port- 
folio at  all,  as  he  had  previously  affirmed. 

Lawyer  Gelotti  had  a  tremendous  lunch  at  this 
stage  of  the  proceedings,  and  tackled  his  German 
afterwards  with  renewed  vigour.  Was  it  credible 
that  a  man  so  careful — let  us  say,  so  laudably  care- 
ful— with  his  money  as  to  make  so  miserly  a  tip, 
would  have  taken  a  portfolio  containing  a  hundred 
liras  down  to  the  bathing-place,  and  left  it  in  his 
clothes?  And  what  was  the  number  of  this  note? 
Surely  this  prudent,  this  economical  citizen  of  Ger- 
many, a  man  so  scrupulously  careful  of  his  money 


34  UP  AND  DOWN 

as  to  tip  on  this  scale,  would  have  taken  the  pre- 
caution to  have  registered  the  number  of  his  note. 
Did  he  not  usually  do  so?  Yes.  So  Lawyer  Gelotti 
suspected.  But  in  this  case,  very  strangely,  he  had 
not.  That  was  odd;  that  was  hard  to  account  for 
except  on  the  supposition  that  there  was  no  such 
note.  And  this  portfolio,  about  which  it  seemed 
really  impossible  to  get  accurate  information?  It 
was  shabby,  was  it,  and  yet  an  hour  before  we  had 
been  told  it  was  new!  And  who  else  had  ever  set 
eyes  on  this  wonderful  portfolio,  this  new  and  rag- 
ged portfolio  with  its  note  of  unknown  number? 
Nobody ;  of  course,  nobody. 

There  followed  a  most  disagreeable  forensic  pic- 
ture of  the  fat  German  gentleman,  while  above  him, 
as  a  stained  glass  window  looks  down  on  Mephis- 
topheles.  Lawyer  Gelotti  proceeded  to  paint  Luigi's 
portrait  in  such  seraphic  lines  and  colour  that  Maria, 
brimming  with  emotion,  felt  that  sixteen  years  ago 
she  had  given  birth  to  a  saint  and  had  never  known 
it  till  now.  Here  was  a  boy  who  had  lost  his  father 
— and  Gelotti's  voice  faltered  as  he  spoke  of  this 
egregious  scamp — who  from  morning  till  night 
slaved  to  support  his  stricken  mother,  and  through 
all  the  self-sacrificing  days  of  his  spotless  boyhood 
never  had  suspicion  or  hint  of  sin  come  near  him. 
The  Court  had  heard  how  blithely  and  eagerly  he 
had  gone  down  to  the  Palazzo  a  mare — it  was  as 
well  the  Court  had  not  heard  his  blithe  remarks  as 
he  passed  through  the  Piazza — on  the  afternoon  of 


MAY,  1914  35 

what  should  have  been  his  holiday.  What  made 
him  so  gay?  Gentlemen,  the  thought  that  inspired 
him  was  that  by  his  service  he  might  earn  a  franc 
or  perhaps  two  francs,  since  it  was  a  festa,  to  bring 
home  to  his  aged  parent.  And  what  was  his  reward? 
Twopence,  twopence  followed  by  this  base  and  un- 
founded and  disproved  and  diabolical  accusation. 
Prison  had  been  his  reward ;  he  languished  in  a  dun- 
geon while  all  Alatri  kept  holiday  and  holy  festival. 
As  for  the  admission  of  which  the  prosecution  had 
made  so  much,  namely,  that  Luigi  had  said  that  the 
German  gentleman  had  a  hole  in  his  pocket,  how 
rejoiced  was  Lawyer  Gelotti  that  he  had  done  so. 
It  was  suggested  that  Luigi  must  have  searched  his 
clothes,  and  found  there  the  apocryphal  portfolio  and 
the  note  that  had  no  number.  But  it  was  true  that 
Luigi  was  intimately  acquainted  with  those  volumi- 
nous trousers.  But  how  and  why  and  when?.  .  . 
And  Lawyer  Gelotti  paused,  while  Luigi's  friends 
held  their  breath,  not  having  the  slightest  idea  of 
the  answer. 

Lawyer  Gelotti  wiped  his  eyes  and  proceeded. 
This  industrious  saintly  lad,  the  support  of  his 
mother's  declining  years,  was  hall-boy  at  the  Grand 
Hotel.  Numerous  were  the  duties  of  a  hall-boy, 
and  Lawyer  Gelotti  would  not  detain  them  over  the 
complete  catalogue.  He  would  only  tell  them  that 
while  others  slept,  while  opulent  German  gentlemen 
dreamed  about  portfolios,  the  hall-boy  was  busy, 
helping  his  cousin,  the  valet  of  the  first  floor,  to 
brush  the  clothes  of  those  who  so  magnificently  re- 


36  UP  AND  DOWN 

warded  the  services  rendered  theim.  Inside  and 
outside  were  those  clothes  brushed:  not  a  speck  of 
dust  remained  when  the  supporter  of  his  mother  had 
done  with  them.  They  were  turned  inside  and  out, 
they  were  shaken,  they  were  brushed  again,  they 
were  neatly  folded.  In  this  way,  gentlemen,  and 
in  no  other  came  the  knowledge  of  the  hole  in  the 
pocket.  .  .  . 
Dio  mio !    Who  spoke  of  fireworks? 

That  evening  Luigi  came  up  to  the  villa  to  receive 
Francis's  congratulations  on  his  acquittal  and  de- 
parted through  the  garden.  Next  morning  Francis, 
strolling  about,  came  to  the  wall  of  the  cistern,  where 
Luigi's  cache  used  to  lurk  behind  the  loosened 
masonry.  The  garden-bed  just  below  it  looked  as 
if  it  had  been  lately  disturbed,  and  with  a  vague 
idea  in  his  mind  he  began  digging  with  his  stick  in 
it.  Very  soon  he  came  upon  some  shredded  frag- 
ments of  leather  buried  there.  ...  I  am  rather 
afraid  Francis  is  an  accomplice. 


JUNE,  1914 

We  have  had  a  month  of  the  perfect  weather,  days 
and  nights  of  flawless  and  crystalline  brightness, 
with  the  sun  marching  serene  all  day  across  the 
empty  blue,  and  setting  at  evening  unveiled  by 
cloud  or  vapour  into  the  sea,  and  a  light  wind  pour- 
ing steadily  as  a  stream  from  the  north.  But  one 
morning  there  gathered  a  cloud  on  the  southern 
horizon  no  bigger  than  a  man's  hand,  which  the 
weather-wise  say  betokens  a  change.  On  that  day, 
too,  there  appeared  in  the  paper  that  other  cloud 
which  presaged  the  wild  tempest  of  blood  and  fire. 
Here  in  this  secure  siren  isle  we  hardly  gave  a 
thought  to  it.  We  just  had  it  hot  at  lunch  and  cold 
at  dinner,  and  after  that  we  thought  of  it  no  more. 
It  seemed  to  have  disappeared,  even  as  the  column 
of  smoke  above  Vesuvius  disappeared  a  few  weeks 
ago. 

It  had  been  a  very  hot  clear  morning,  and  since, 
the  evening  before,  it  had  been  necessary  to  tell 
Pasqualino  that  the  wages  he  received,  the  food  he 
ate,  and  the  room  he  occupied  were  not  given  him 
gratis  by  a  beneficent  Providence  in  order  that  he 
should  have  complete  leisure  to  make  himself  smart 
and  spend  his  whole  time  with  his  Caterina,  he  had 
been  very  busy  sweeping  and  embellishing  the  house, 

37 


38  UP  AND  DOWN 

while  it  was  still  scarcely  light,  in  order  to  put  into 
practice  the  fervency  of  his  reformed  intentions.  He 
had  come  into  my  bedroom  while  dawn  was  yet  grey, 
on  tiptoe,  in  order  not  to  awaken  me,  and  taken  away 
the  step-ladder  which  he  needed.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
I  was  already  awake,  and  so  his  falling  downstairs 
or  throwing  the  step-ladder  downstairs  a  moment 
afterwards  with  a  crash  that  would  have  roused  the 
dead  did  not  annoy  but  only  interested  me,  and  I 
wondered  what  he  wanted  the  step-ladder  for,  and 
whether  it  was  much  broken.  Soon  the  sound  of 
muffled  hammering  began  from  the  dining-room  be- 
low, which  showed  he  was  very  busy,  and  the  beam- 
ing face  with  which  he  called  me  half  an  hour  later 
was  further  evidence  of  his  delighted  and  approving 
conscience.  It  was  clear  that  he  could  hardly  refrain 
from  telling  me  what  he  had  been  doing,  but  the 
desire  to  surprise  and  amaze  me  prevailed,  and  he 
went  off  again  with  a  broad  grin.  Soon  I  came 
downstairs,  and  discovered  that  he  •  had  woven  a 
great  wreath  of  flowering  myrtle,  gay  with  bows  of 
red  riband,  and  had  nailed  it  up  over  the  door  into 
the  dining-room.  A  cataract  of  whitewash  and 
plaster  had  been  dislodged  in  the  fixing  of  it,  which 
he  was  then  very  busy  sweeping  up,  and  he  radiantly 
told  me  that  he  had  been  on  the  hill-side  at  half- 
past  four  to  gather  materials  for  his  decoration. 
Certainly  it  looked  very  pretty,  and  when  the  plaster 
and  whitewash  was  cleared  away,  you  could  not  tell 
that  any  damage  had  been  done  to  the  fabric  of  the 
house.     Soon  after  Caterina  came  in  with  the  week's 


JUNE,  1914  39 

washing  balanced  in  a  basket  on  her  head,  and 
Pasqualino  took  her  through  to  show  her  his  wreath. 
She  highly  approved,  and  he  kissed  her  in  the  pas- 
sage. I  may  remark  that  she  is  sixteen  and  he 
seventeen,  so  there  is  plenty  of  time  for  him  to  do  a 
little  work  as  domestic  servant  before  he  devotes 
himself  to  Caterina.  Of  all  the  young  thigns  in 
the  island  these  two  are  far  the  fairest,  and  I  have  a 
great  sympathy  with  Pasqualino  when  he  neglects 
his  work  and  goes  strutting  before  Caterina.  But 
I  intend  that  he  shall  do  his  work  all  the  same. 

There  is  no  such  delicious  hour  in  this  sea-girt 
south  as  that  of  early  morning  ushering  in  a  hot  day. 
The  air  is  full  of  a  warm  freshness.  The  vigour  of 
sea  and  starlight  has  renewed  it,  and  though  for 
several  weeks  now  no  drop  of  rain  has  fallen,  the 
earth  has  drunk  and  been  refreshed  by  the  invisible 
waters  of  the  air.  The  stucco  path  that  runs  along 
the  southern  face  of  the  house,  still  shadowed  by  the 
stone-pine  glistened  with  heavy  dews,  and  the  morn- 
ing-glory along  the  garden  walls,  drenched  with 
moisture,  was  unfolding  a  new  galaxy  of  wet 
crumpled  blossoms.  Yet  in  spite  of  the  freshness  of 
the  early  hour,  there  was  a  certain  hint  of  oppression 
in  the  air,  and  strolling  along  the  lower  terrace,  I 
saw  the  cloud  of  which  I  have  spoken,  already  form- 
ing on  the  southern  horizon.  But  it  looked  so  small, 
so  lost,  in  the  vast  dome  of  blue  that  surrounded  it, 
that  I  scarcely  gave  it  a  second  thought. 

Persently  afterwards  Francis  and  I  set  out  to  walk 
down   to   the  bathing-place.     We  stopped   in   the 


40  UP  AND  DOWN 

Piazza  to  order  a  cab  to  come  down  to  the  point 
where  the  road  approaches  nearest  to  the  beach  from 
which  we  bathed,  for  the  midday  walk  up  again 
would  clearly  be  intolerable  in  the  heat  that  was 
growing  greater  every  moment,  and  set  out  through 
narrow  ways  between  the  vineyards,  in  order  to  avoid 
the  dust  of  the  high  road.  The  light  north  wind, 
which  for  the  past  month  had  given  vigour  to  the 
air,  had  altogether  fallen,  and  not  a  breath  disturbed 
the  polished  surface  of  the  bay,  where  twenty  miles 
away  Naples  and  the  hills  above  it  were  unwaver- 
ingly mirrored  on  the  water.  So  clear  was  it  that 
you  could  see  individual  houses  there,  so  still  that 
the  hair-like  stalks  of  the  campanulas  which  frothed 
out  of  the  crevices  of  the  walls  stood  stiff  and 
motionless,  as  if  made  of  steel.  Above  us  the  ter- 
raced vineyards  rose  in  tiers  to  the  foot  of  the  sheer 
cliffs  of  Monte  Gennaro,  fringed  with  yellow  broom  ; 
below  they  stretched,  in  an  unbroken  staircase  down 
to  the  roofs  of  the  Marina,  to  which  at  midday  comes 
the  steamer  from  Naples  carrying  our  post  and  a 
horde  of  tourists  who  daily,  for  the  space  of  three  or 
four  hours,  invade  the  place.  Still  downwards  we 
went  between  vines  and  lemon  orchards,  and  an 
occasional  belt  of  olive-trees,  till  the  bay  opened 
before  us  again  and  the  flight  of  steps  that  led  to  the 
enchanted  beach  of  the  Palazzo  a  mare. 

Here  on  the  edge  of  the  sea  the  Emperor  Tiberius 
built  one  of  his  seven  island  palaces,  but  in  the 
course  of  centuries  this  northern  shore  has  subsided, 
so  that  the  great  halls  that  once  stood  on  the  margin 


JUNE,  1914  41 

of  the  bay  are  partly  submerged,  and  the  waves  wash 
up  cubes  of  green  and  red  marble  from  tesselated 
pavements  that  once  formed  the  floors  of  the  palace. 
Portions  of  the  cliff-side  are  faced  with  the  brick- 
work of  its  walls,  from  the  fissures  in  which  sprout 
spurge  and  tufts  of  valerian,  and  tumbled  fragments 
of  its  foundations  lie  about  on  the  beach  and  pro- 
ject into  the  water,  in  lumps  twenty  feet  thick  of 
compounded  stone  and  mortar.  The  modem  his- 
torian has  been  busy  lately  with  Tiberius,  devoting 
to  his  memory  pailfuls  of  antiquarian  whitewash, 
and  here,  where  tradition  says  there  lay  the  scene 
of  infamous  orgies,  we  are  told  now  to  reconstruct  a 
sort  of  Sunday-school  presided  over  by  an  aged  and 
benevolent  emperor,  who,  fatigued  with  affairs  of 
state,  found  here  an  innocent  and  rural  retreat, 
where  he  could  forget  his  purple,  and  refresh  himself 
with  the  beauties  of  Nature.  Whatever  the  truth 
of  that  may  be,  there  is  no  doubt  that  he  built  this 
palace  in  a  most  delectable  place,  and  I  sincerely 
hope  that  he  was  as  happy  in  it  as  I  am  every  morn- 
ing among  its  ruins. 

At  one  end  of  this  little  bay  project  huge  masses 
of  the  palace  walls,  forming  the  promontory  round 
which  the  fat  and  thwarted  German  swam,  the  day 
that  he  brought  Luigi  down  to  carry  his  clothes  and 
his  towels  and  his  shoes.  These  latter  were  to  enable 
him  to  cross  the  shingly  beach,  which,  when  the  feet 
are  una<;customed  to  it,  is  undeniably  painful. 
Along  it,  and  by  the  edge  of  this  tideless  water,  are 
pockets  and  streaks  of  grey  sand,  and  to-day  the 


42  UP  AND  DOWN 

sea  lies  as  motionless  as  if  it  was  the  surface  of 
some  sheltered  lake.  Not  a  ripple  disturbs  it,  not  a 
breath  of  wind  ruffles  its  surface.  Standing  knee- 
deep  in  it  and  looking  down,  you  might  think,  but 
for  a  certain  fullness  and  liquid  clarity  in  the  pebbles 
that  lie  at  the  bottom,  that  there  was  no  water  there 
at  all,  so  closely  does  its  translucence  approach  to 
invisibility.  But  it  is  impossible  to  stand  dry- 
skinned  there  for  long,  so  hotly  does  the  sun  strike 
on  the  shoulders,  and  soon  I  fall  forward  in  it,  and 
lie  submerged  there  like  a  log,  looking  subaqueously 
at  the  bright  diaper  of  pebbles,  with  a  muffled 
thunder  of  waters  in  my  ears,  longing  to  have  a  hun- 
dred limbs  in  order  to  get  fuller  contact  with  this 
gladdest  and  loveliest  of  all  the  creatures  of  God. 

But  even  in  this  hedonistic  bathing  one's  ridicu- 
lous mind  makes  tasks  for  itself,  and  it  has  become 
an  affair  of  duty  with  me  to  swim  backwards  and 
forwards  twice  to  a  certain  rock  that  lies  some  three 
hundred  yards  away.  There  (for  Luigi  is  not  alone 
in  this  island  in  the  matter  of  caches)  I  have  what 
you  may  really  call  an  emporium  stowed  away  in 
a  small  seaweed-faced  nook  which  I  believe  to  be 
undiscoverable.  If  you  know  exactly  where  that 
nook  is  (it  lies  about  two  feet  above  the  surface  of 
the  water),  and  put  your  hand  through  the  seaweed 
at  exactly  the  right  spot,  you  will  find  a  tin  box  con- 
taining (i)  a  box  of  matches,  (ii)  a  handful  of  ciga- 
rettes, (in)  a  thermometer.  The  first  time  that  I 
arrive  at  the  rock  I  have  no  truck  with  my  cache,  but 
only    touch    the   rock    with    a   finger,    and    swim 


JUNE,  1914  43 

back  to  the  beach  again.  There  I  touch  an- 
other rock  with  my  finger  (these  two  rocks, 
in  fact,  are  like  the  creases  at  cricket,  which  you 
must  touch  with  your  bat  in  order  to  score  a  run), 
and  swim  back  for  the  second  time  to  my  wicket  out 
at  sea.  Then,  oh  then,  after  a  cautious  survey,  in 
order  to  see  that  no  one,  not  even  Francis,  can 
observe  my  movements,  I  take  the  tin  box  from  its 
place,  get  out  of  the  water  on  to  the  rock,  and  having 
dried  my  fingers  on  wisps  of  seaweed,  light  a 
cigarette  and  smoke  it.  As  I  smoke  it,  I  submerge 
the  thermometer  in  the  sea,  and  when  the  cigarette 
is  finished,  read  the  temperature.  After  that  the 
thermometer  has  to  be  dried,  and  is  put  back  in  the 
box  with  the  cigarettes  and  matches,  and  the  treasure 
is  stowed  away  again  in  its  seaweed-fronted  cave. 
Once  a  fortnight  or  so  I  must  go  through  a  perilous 
manoeuvre,  for  I  have  to  bring  the  box  back  to  be 
refilled.  This  entails  swimming  with  one  hand  in 
the  air  holding  the  box  like  Excalibur  above  the  sea, 
and  it  can  only  be  done  on  very  calm  mornings,  for 
otherwise  there  is  danger  of  some  ripples  intruding 
through  the  hinges  or  edge  of  the  lid,  which  does  not 
shut  very  well.  And  all  the  time  the  risk  of  detec- 
tion is  imminent,  for  if  Francis  saw  me  swimming  to 
land  with  a  bright  tin  box  in  my  hand,  he  would  be 
certain  to  make  inquires.  But  so  far  no  such  heart- 
breaking disaster  has  befallen,  and  without  detection 
(and  I  humbly  trust  without  suspicion)  the  cache- 
box  has  been  twice  taken  back  to  be  refilled  and 
gone  on  its  return  journey  again  to  its  romantic 


44  UP  AND  DOWN 

hiding-place.  Sometimes  I  have  been  within  an 
ace  of  discovery,  as  when,  to  my  horror,  two  days 
ago  Francis  swam  out  to  my  rock,  instead  of  going 
to  his  own,  while  I  was  in  the  middle  of  my  cigarette. 
I  had  time  to  put  the  box  back,  but  somehow  it 
never  occurred  to  me  to  throw  the  cigarette  away. 
By  a  special  dispensation  of  Providence,  however, 
it  was  not  permitted  that  it  should  occur  to  him  as 
odd  that  I  should  be  seated  on  a  rock  in  the  middle 
of  the  sea,  smoking.  He  was  accustomed  to  the 
sight,  I  must  suppose,  of  my  smoking  on  land,  and 
the  question  of  locality  did  not  occur  to  him.  But 
it  seemed  a  weary,  weary  time  before  he  slid  off  into 
the  sea  again,  I  airily  remarking  that  I  should  sit 
there  a  little  longer.  Sometimes,  when  Francis  has 
been  unusually  communicative  about  private  mat- 
ters that  concern  himself  alone,  I  wonder  whether  I 
ought  to  tell  him  about  my  cache.  But  I  don't,  for 
those  who  understand  the  true  science  of  caches 
understand  that  if  you  have  made  a  cache  alone,  you 
might  just  as  well  not  have  made  it  at  all  if  you  share 
your  secret  with  anybody.  You  can  have  joint 
caches,  of  course.  .  .  . 

This  morning  the  thermoroSler  registered  seventy- 
six  degrees,  which  gave  me  a  feeling  of  personal  pride 
in  the  sea  and  Italy  generally,  and  I  swam  lazily 
back  through  the  warm  clinging  water.  The  sun 
flamed  overhead,  and  the  line  of  the  beach  was  reel- 
ing and  dancing  in  the  heat.  But  if  you  think  that 
now  my  bathe  was  over,  you  are  miserably  mistaken ; 


JUNE,  1914  45 

you  might  as  well  suppose  that  the  play  of  Hamlet 
was  finished  when  the  ghost  appeared.  The  swim 
to  the  rock  is  only  the  first  act,  the  main  bathe;  and 
now  begins  the  second  or  basking  act,  which  may  or 
may  not  be  studious. 

Some  dozen  bathers,  English  and  American,  for 
the  most  part,  are  dotted  about  the  beach.  Francis 
is  already  out  of  the  water,  and  is  lying  on  his  back 
in  a  pocket  of  sand,  with  his  hands  across  his  eyes 
to  keep  the  glare  out,  and  I  take  my  volume  of  "The 
Ring  and  the  Book,"  which  I  have  made  it  my  task 
to  read  through,  put  on  a  hat,  and,  wet  and  cool,  sit 
down  propped  up  against  a  smooth  white  rock. 
This  is  so  hot  that  I  must  needs  hang  a  towel  over 
it,  and  then  I  open  my  book  where  I  last  turned 
down  the  page.  For  ten  minutes  perhaps  I  am  a 
model  of  industry,  and  then  insensibly  my  eye  wan- 
ders from  the  dazzling  white  page  where  the  words 
by  some  optical  delusion  seem  printed  in  red.  .  .  . 

The  sea  is  still  a  mirror  of  crystal ;  some  little  way 
out  a  big  steamer,  high  in  the  water,  so  that  the 
screw  revolves  in  a  smother  of  foam,  is  kicking  her 
way  into  Naples,  and  soon  the  dark  blue  lines  of  her 
wash  will  come  creaming  to  land.  Otherwise 
nothing  stirs;  the  sun-burned  figures  disposed  about 
the  beach  might  be  asleep,  and  on  the  steep  hillside 
behind  there  is  no  sound  or  movement  of  life.  Per- 
haps a  little  draught  draws  downward  towards  the 
sea,  for  mixed  with  the  aromatic  smells  of  the  dried 
seaweed  on  the  beach  there  is  a  faint  odour  of  the 
broom  flower  that  flames  on  the  slope.    Already  my 


46  UP  AND  DOWN 

book  has  slipped  from  my  knee  on  to  the  pebbles, 
and  gradually — a  phenomenon  to  which  I  am  getting 
accustomed  in  these  noonday  baskings — thought 
fades  also,  and  I  am  only  conscious,  though  very  viv- 
idly conscious;  I  know  vividly,  acutely,  that  this  is 
Italy,  that  here  is  the  sea  and  the  baking  beach,  and 
the  tumbled  fragments  of  Tiberius's  palace,  that  a 
dozen  yards  away  Francis,  having  sat  up,  is  clasping 
his  knees  with  his  arms,  and  is  looking  seaward,  but 
all  these  things  are  not  objects  of  thought,  but  only 
of  consciousness.  They  seem  part  of  me,  or  I  of 
them ;  the  welding  of  the  world  to  me  gets  closer  and 
more  complete  every  moment;  I  am  so  nearly  the 
same  thing  as  the  stones  on  the  beach,  and  the  liquid 
rim  of  the  sea;  so  nearly  too,  am  I  Francis,  or,  in- 
deed, any  other  of  these  quiet  dreaming  basking 
figures.  The  line  of  the  steamer's  wash  which  is 
now  on  the  point  of  breaking  along  the  shore  is  so 
nearly  realizable  as  one  with  the  sun  or  the  sky,  or 
me,  or  any  visible  or  tangible  part  of  the  whole,  for 
each  is  the  expression  of  the  Absolute.  .  .  . 

I  do  not  know  whether  this  is  Paganism  or  Pan- 
theism, or  what,  but  that  it  is  true  seems  beyond  all 
power  of  doubt;  it  is  certain,  invariable,  all  that 
varies  is  our  power  of  feeling  it.  To  me  personally 
the  sense  of  home  that  Italy  gives  quickens  my  per- 
ception and  assimilation  of  it,  and  this  is  further 
fulfilled  by  the  intimacy  with  external  things  pro- 
duced by  these  sun-soaked  and  sea-pickled  mornings. 
Here  in  the  South  one  gets  closer  to  the  simple  facts 
of  the  world,  one  is  welded  to  sun  and  sea;  the  com- 


JUNE,  1914  47 

munications  between  soul  and  body  and  the  external 
world  are  cleaned  and  fortified.  It  is  as  if  the  buzz 
and  clatter  of  a  telephone  suddenly  cleared  away, 
and  the  voice  came  through  unhindered.  In  Eng- 
land the  distraction  and  complications  that  necessar- 
ily crowd  in  on  one  in  the  land  where  one  lives 
and  earns  one's  living,  and  is  responsible  for  a  house 
and  is  making  arrangements  and  fitting  them  into 
the  hours  of  the  day,  choke  the  lines  of  communica- 
tion; here  I  strip  them  off  even  as  I  strip  off  my 
clothese  to  wallow  in  the  sea  and  lie  in  the  sand. 
The  barriers  of  individualism,  in  which  are  situated 
both  the  sense  of  identity,  and  the  loneliness  which 
the  sense  of  being  oneself  brings,  are  drawn  up 
like  the  sluices  of  a  lock,  letting  the  pour  of  external 
things,  of  sun  and  sea  and  human  beings  into  the 
quiet  sundered  pool.  I  begin  to  realize  with  experi- 
ence that  I  am  part  of  the  whole  creation  to  which  I 
belong. 

You  will  find  something  of  this  consciousness  in  all 
that  school  of  thought  known  as  mysticism;  it  is, 
indeed,  the  basis  of  mysticism,  whether  that  mysti- 
cism is  pagan  or  Christian.  In  Greek  thought  you 
will  find  it,  expressed  guardedly  and  tentatively,  and 
it  undoubtedly  lies  at  the  base  of  some  of  their 
myths.  It  lurks  in  that  myth  of  Narcissus,  the 
youth  who,  beholding  his  own  fair  image  in  tranquil 
water,  was  drawn  in  by  the  spirits  of  the  stream,  and 
became  a  flower  on  the  bank  of  the  pool  where  he 
had  lost  himself,  becoming  merged  in  creation.  So, 
too,  in  the  story  of  Hyacinthus,  whom  Apollo  loved. 


48  UP  AND  DOWN 

Him,  as  he  was  playing  with  the  discus,  the  sun-god 
inadvertently  slew,  and  from  his  blood  came  up  the 
flowers  that  bear  his  name.  And  more  especially, 
for  here  we  get  not  the  instance  only  but  the  state- 
ment of  the  idea  itself,  we  find  it  in  the  myth  of  Pan, 
the  god  of  all  Nature,  the  spirit  of  all  that  is.  He 
was  not  to  be  found  in  town  or  market-place,  nor 
where  men  congregate,  but  it  might  happen  that  the 
lonely  wayfarer,  as  he  passed  through  untenanted 
valley  or  over  empty  hill-side,  might  hear  the  sound 
of  his  magical  fluting  of  the  tune  that  has  no  begin- 
ning and  no  ending,  for  it  is  as  young  as  spring  and 
as  old  as  Time.  He  might  even  see  him  seated  in 
some  vine-wreathed  cave,  and  though  the  sight  of 
him  meant,  even  as  to  Narcissus  or  to  Hyacinthus, 
the  death  of  the  body,  who  shall  doubt  that  he  to 
whom  that  vision  was  vouchsafed  died  because  he 
had  utterly  fulfilled  himself  as  an  individual,  and  his 
passing  was  the  bursting  of  his  heart  with  the  great- 
ness of  the  joy  that  illuminated  him?  He  had  be- 
held Nature — Nature  itself  with  true  eyes,  and  could 
no  longer  exist  in  separate  individual  consciousness ; 
seeing  the  spirit  of  the  All,  he  knew  and  was  merged 
in  his  union  with  it. 

Here  is  the  pagan  view  of  the  All-embracing,  All- 
containing  God,  and  it  is  hardly  necessary  to  point 
out  how  completely  it  is  parallel  to,  even  identical 
with,  the  revelations  of  Christian  mysticism.  The 
bridal  of  the  soul  with  her  Lord,  as  known  to  St. 
Theresa,  the  dissolution  and  bathing  of  the  soul  in 
love,  its  forsaking  of  itself  and  going  wholly  from 


JUNE,  1914  49 

itself,  which  is  the  spirit  of  what  Thomas  a  Kempis 
tells  us  of  the  true  way,  are  all  expressions  of  the 
same  spiritual  attainment.  To  them  it  came  in  the 
light  of  Christian  revelation,  but  it  was  the  same 
thing  as  the  Greek  was  striving  after  in  terms  of  Pan. 
And  in  every  humaii  soul  is  planted  this  seed  of 
mystic  knowledge,  which  grows  fast  or  slow,  accord- 
ing to  the  soil  where  it  is  set,  and  the  cultivation  it 
receives.  To  some  the  knowledge  of  it  comes  only 
in  fitful  faraway  flashes;  others  live  always  in  its 
light.  And  the  consciousness  of  it  may  come  in  a 
hundred  manners:  to  the  worshipper  when  he  re- 
ceives the  mystery  of  his  faith  at  the  altar,  to  the 
lover  when  he  beholds  his  beloved,  to  the  artist  when 
the  lift  of  cloud  or  the  "clear  shining  after  rain" 
suddenly  smites  him  personally  and  intimately,  so 
that  for  the  moment  he  is  no  longer  an  observer  but 
is  part  of  what  he  sees. 

But  to  none  of  us  does  the  complete  realization 
come  until  the  time  when  our  individuality,  as 
known  to  us  here  and  now,  breaks  like  the  folded 
flower  from  the  sheath  of  the  body.  Often  we  seem 
nearly  to  get  there;  we  feel  that  if  only  we  could 
stay  in  a  state  of  mind  that  is  purely  receptive  and 
quiescent,  the  sense  of  it  would  come  to  us  with 
complete  comprehension.  But  as  we  get  near  it, 
some  thought,  like  a  buzzing  fly,  stirs  in  our  brain, 
and  with  a  jerk  we  are  brought  back  to  normal  con- 
sciousness, with  the  feeling  that  some  noise  has 
brought  us  back  from  a  dream  that  was  infinitely 
more  vivid  and  truer  than  the  world  we  awake  to. 


50  UP  AND  DOWN 

So  it  happened  to  me  now.  I  saw  and  heard  the 
hissing  of  the  wash  of  the  steamer  break  on  the 
shore,  observing  it  and  thinking  about  it.  I  saw, 
too,  that  Francis  had  got  up  and  was  walking  along 
towards  me,  ankle-deep  in  the  shallow  water.  He 
groped  among  the  pebbles  with  his  hand,  and  picked 
something  up.  Then  he  came  and  lay  down  along- 
side, and  before  he  spoke  I  think  I  knew  the  gist  of 
what  he  was  going  to  say. 

He  held  out  to  me  what  he  had  picked  up.  It  was 
one  of  those  fragments  of  green  mottled  marble,  such 
as  we  often  find  here,  washed  up  from  the  ruined 
pavements  of  the  palace. 

"What  is  it?''  he  said.  "What  is  it  really?  God 
somehow,  you  know." 

"Or  you  or  me?"  I  suggested. 

"Yes,  of  course.  Either,  both.  But  there  is 
something.  Someone,  call  it  the  Absolute  or  the  First 
Cause  or  God,  which  is  quite  everywhere.  It  can't 
be  local.  That's  the  only  explanation  of  All-there-is 
which  will  hold  water,  and  it  holds  water  and  every- 
thing else.  But  you  don't  get  at  it  by  discussion 
and  arguments,  or  even  by  thought.  You've  got  to 
open  the  windows  and  doors;  let  the  air  in.  Per- 
haps you've  got  to  knock  down  and  blow  up  the  very 
house  of  your  identity,  and  sit  on  the  ruins  and  wait. 
But  it's  the  idea  of  that  which  makes  me  so  busy  in 
my  lazy  life." 

The  ripple  of  the  steamer's  wash  died  away  again. 

"Funny  that  you  should  have  said  that  just  now," 
I  remarked. 


JUNE,  1914  51 

"Why?  Just  because  you  had  been  thinking 
about  it?  I  don't  see  that.  If  the  wind  blew  here, 
it  would  be  odder  that  it  didn't  blow  when  I  was 
sitting  over  there." 

''But  did  you  know  I  had  been  thinking  about  it?" 
''Well,  it  seemed  likely.     Let's  have  another  swim 
before  we   dress.     There's  trouble   coming  in   the 
sky.     It's  the  last  of  the  serene  days  for  the  present." 
"But  there  was  a  high  barometer  this  morning." 
"There  won't  be  when  we  get  up  to  the  Villa 
again,"  he  said.     "The  sun  has  got  the  central- 
heating  touch  to-day.     It's  been  stuffy  heat  for  the 
last  hour,  not  the  heat  of  the  fire.     And  look  at 
the  sky." 

Certainly  a  curious  change  had  taken  place  all 
over  the  firmament.  It  was  as  if  some  celestial 
painter  had  put  body-colour  into  what  had  been  a 
wash  of  pure  blue;  there  was  a  certain  white  opacity 
mingled  with  the  previous  clarity  of  it.  The  sun 
itself,  too,  was  a  little  veiled,  and  its  heat,  as  Francis 
had  said,  seemed  more  like  the  radiation  from  hot- 
water  pipes  than  the  genial  glow  of  an  open  fire. 
Round  it  at  a  distance  of  three  or  four  of  its  diam- 
eters ran  a  pale  complete  halo,  as  of  mist.  Yet 
what  mist  could  live  in  such  a  burning  and  be  un- 

consumed? 

I 

"  'Sometimes  too  hot  the  eye   of  heaven  shines, 
And  often  is  his  gold  complexion  dimmed,' " 

quoted  Francis.     "But  here  we  have  the  two  things 
occurring  simultaneously,  which  Shakespeare  did  not 


52  UP  AND  DOWN 

mean.     But   what,    after    all,    didn't    Shakespeare 
mean?'' 

We  swam  out  round  the  fat  German's  promon- 
tory, floated,  drifting  with  the  eastward  setting  cur- 
rent, came  lazily  in  again,  and  even  more  lazily 
walked  up  through  the  narrow  cobbled  path  to  where 
the  rickety  little  victoria  was  waiting  for  us  on  the 
road.  The  tourist  boat  had  arrived,  and  clouds  of 
dust  hung  in  the  air,  where  their  vehicles  had  passed, 
undispersed  by  any  breeze.  The  intolerable  oppres- 
sion of  the  air  was  increasing  every  moment;  the 
horse  felt  himself  unable  to  evolve  even  the  sem- 
blance of  a  trot,  and  the  driver,  usually  the  smartest 
and  most  brisk  of  charioteers,  sat  huddled  up  on  his 
box,  without  the  energy  to  crack  his  whip  or  encour- 
age his  steed  to  a  livelier  pace.  Usually  he  sits  up- 
right and  sideways,  with  bits  of  local  news  for  his 
passengers,  and  greetings  for  his  friends  on  the  road ; 
to-day  he  had  nothing  beyond  a  grunt  of  salutation, 
and  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders  for  the  tip  which  he 
usually  receives  with  a  wave  of  his  hat,  and  a  white- 
toothed  "Tante  grazieT  The  Piazza,  usually  a 
crowded  cheerful  sort  of  outdoor  club  at  midday, 
was  empty,  but  for  a  few  exhausted  individuals  who 
sat  in  the  strips  of  narrow  shadow,  and  the  post- 
ofl&ce  clerk  just  chucked  our  letters  and  papers  at 
us.  The  approach  of  Scirocco,  though  as  yet  no 
wind  stirred,  made  everyone  cross  and  irritable,  and 
set  every  nerve  on  edge,  and  from  the  kitchen,  when 
we  arrived  at  the  Villa,  we  heard  sounds  of  shrill 
altercation  going  on  between  Pasqualino  and  Sera- 


JUNE,  1914  53 

phina,  a  thing  portentously  unusual  with  those 
amicable  souls.  Pasqualino  banged  down  the  maca- 
roni on  the  table,  and  spilt  the  wine  and  frowned 
and  shrugged  till  Francis  told  him  abruptly  to  mend 
his  manners  or  let  Seraphina  serve  us;  on  which  for 
a  moment  the  sunny  Italian  child  looked  out  from 
the  clouds  and  begged  pardon,  and  said  it  was  not  he 
but  the  cursed  Scirocco.  And  then,  following  on 
the  cloud  in  the  sky  that  had  spread  so  quickly  over 
the  heavens,  came  the  second  cloud. 

Francis  had  just  opened  the  Italian  paper  which 
we  had  got  at  the  post-office  and  gave  one  glance 
at  it. 

"Horrible  thing!"  he  said.  "The  Archduke  Fer- 
dinand, heir  to  the  Austrian  throne,  and  his  wife 
have  been  murdered  at  Serajevo.  Where  is  Sera- 
jevo?    Pass  the  mustard,  please." 

Pasqualino's  myrtle  wreath  fell  down  during  lunch 
(he  told  us  that  it  had  done  the  same  thing  a  good 
deal  all  morning),  and  he,  exhausted  by  his  early 
rising  to  pick  it,  and  the  increasing  tension  of  Sci- 
rocco, went  and  lay  down  on  the  bench  by  the  cistern 
in  the  garden  as  soon  as  his  ministrations  were  over, 
and  after  the  fashion  of  Italians  took  off  his  coat  and 
put  it  over  his  head,  which  seemed  odd  on  this  broil- 
ing and  airless  day.  From  the  kitchen  came  the 
choking  reverberation  of  snores,  and  looking  in,  I 
saw  Seraphina  reposing  augustly  on  the  floor,  with 
her  back  propped  up  against  the  kitchen  dresser 
and  her  mouth  wide,  as  if  for  presentation  to  a  den- 


54  UP  AND  DOWN 

tist.  Francis  retired  to  his  bedroom  to  lie  down  and 
sleep,  and,  feeling  like  Oenone  that  "I  alone  awake," 
I  went  to  my  sitting-room  to  read  the  paper,  and,  if 
possible,  write  a  letter  that  ought  to  have  been  sent 
quite  a  week  ago. 

This  room  is  furnished  exactly  as  I  chose  to  fur- 
nish it;  consequently  it  has  got  exactly  all  that  I 
want  in  it,  and,  what  is  even  more  important,  it  has 
nothing  that  I  don't  want.  There  is  a  vast  table 
made  of  chestnut  wood,  so  big  that  a  week's  arrears 
can  accumulate  on  it,  and  yet  leave  space  to  write, 
to  play  picquet  at  the  corner  and  to  have  tea.  (If 
there  are  any  other  uses  for  a  table,  I  don't  know 
them.)  This  table  stands  so  that  the  light  from 
the  window  number  one  falls  on  it,  and  close  behind 
it  along  the  wall  is  the  spring  mattress  of  a  bed. 
On  it  lies  another  thick  comfortable  mattress ;  above 
that  a  stamped  linen  coverlet,  and  on  that  are  three 
enormous  cushions  and  two  little  ones.  The  debili- 
tated author,  therefore,  when  the  fatigue  of  compo- 
sition grows  to  breaking-point,  can  thus  slide  from 
his  chair  at  the  enormous  table,  and  dispose  the  cush- 
ions so  as  to  ensure  a  little  repose.  Opposite  this 
couch  stands  a  bookcase,  where  are  those  few  works 
that  are  necessary  to  salvation,  such  as  "Wuther- 
ing  Heights,"  "Emma,"  and  "The  Rubaiyat,"  books 
that  you  can  open  anywhere  and  be  instantly  waft- 
ed, as  on  a  magic  carpet,  to  familiar  scenes  that 
never  lose  the  challenge  of  novelty  (for  this  is 
the  reason  of  a  book,  just  as  it  is  also  of  a  friend). 
After  the  bookcase  comes  the  door  into  my  bed- 


JUNE,  1914  55 

room,  and  after  that,  on  the  wall  at  right  angles, 
window  number  two,  looking  south.  A  chair  is  set 
against  the  wall  just  beyond  it,  and  beyond  again 
(coming  back  to  window  number  one,  which  looks 
west)  another  chair,  big,  low  and  comfortable,  con- 
venient to  which  stands  a  small  table,  on  which 
Pasqualino  has  placed  a  huge  glass  wine-flask,  and 
has  arranged  in  it  the  myrtle  that  was  left  over 
from  his  wreath.  The  walls  of  this  abode  of  peace 
are  whitewashed  and  ungarnished  by  pictures,  the 
ceiling  is  vaulted,  the  tiled  floor  is  uncarpeted,  and 
outside  window  number  one  is  a  small  terrace,  on 
the  walls  of  which  stand  pots  of  scarlet  geraniums, 
when,  where  nights  are  too  hot  within,  I  drag  a  mat- 
tress, a  pillow  and  a  sheet.  There  are  electric 
lamps  on  both  tables  and  above  the  couch,  and  I 
know  nothing  that  a  mortal  man  can  really  want, 
which  is  not  comprised  in  this  brief  catalogue. 

I  wrote  the  letter  that  should  have  been  written  a 
week  ago,  found  that  it  didn't  meet  the  case,  and 
after  tearing  it  up,  lay  down  on  the  couch  (com- 
pletely conscious  of  my  own  duplicity  of  purpose) 
in  order,  so  I  said  to  myself,  to  think  it  over.  But 
my  mind  was  all  abroad,  and  I  thought  of  a  hun- 
dred other  things  instead,  of  the  bathe,  of  the  gar- 
den, and  wondered  whether  if  I  went  into  the  studio 
and  played  the  piano  very  softly,  it  would  disturb 
anybody.  Then  I  had  the  idea  that  there  was 
someone  in  the  studio,  and  found  myself  listening 
as  to  whether  I  heard  steps  there  or  not.  Certainly 
I  heard  no  steps,  but  the  sense  that  there  was  some- 


56  UP  AND  DOWN 

one  there  was  rather  marked.  Then,  simultaneously 
I  remembered  how  both  Pasqualino  and  Seraphina 
had  heard  steps  there,  when  the  house  was  other- 
wise empty,  and  had  gone  there,  both  singly  and 
together,  to  see  if  Francis  or  I  had  come  in.  But 
even  as  I  did  now,  they  have  entered  and  found  the 
studio  empty.  Often  I  have  hoped  that  a  ghost 
might  lurk  in  those  unexplained  footfalls,  but  ap- 
parently the  ghost  cannot  make  itself  more  manifest 
than  this. 

I  stood  there  a  moment  still  feeling  that  there 
was  somebody  there,  though  I  neither  saw  nor  heard 
anything,  and  then  went  quietly  along  the  pas- 
sage, under  the  spur  of  the  restlessness  that  some 
people  experience  before  Scirocco  bursts,  and  looked 
into  Francis's  room,  the  door  of  which  was  open.  He 
lay  on  his  bed  in  trousers  and  opened  shirt,  sleep- 
ing quietly.  From  here  I  could  catch  the  sound  of 
Seraphina's  snoring,  and  from  the  window  could  see 
the  head-muffled  Pasqualino  spread  out  in  the 
shade  of  the  awning  above  the  garden  cistern.  And 
feeling  more  Oenone-ish  than  ever,  I  went  back  and 
lay  down  again.  It  was  impossible  in  this  stillness 
and  stagnation  of  the  oppressed  air  to  do  more  than 
wait,  as  quiescently  as  possible,  for  the  passing  of 
the  hours. 

I  was  not  in  the  least  sleepy,  but  I  had  hardly 
lain  down  when  the  muddle  and  blur  of  sudden 
slumber  began  to  steal  over  my  brain.  I  thought 
I  remembered  seeing  the  murdered  Archduke  once 
in  London,  and  was  I  wrong  in  recollecting  that  he 


JUNE,  1914  57 

always  wore  a  fur- tippet  over  his  mouth?  I  recog- 
nized that  as  nonsense,  for  I  had  never  seen  him  at 
all,  and  fell  to  thinking  about  Francis  lying  there  on 
his  bed,  with  doors  and  windows  open.  It  seemed 
to  me  rather  dangerous  that  he  should  lie  there,  re- 
laxed and  defenceless,  for  it  was  guite  possible  that 
Miss  Machonochie,  recognizing  that  everything  was 
one  (even  as  I  had  felt  this  morning  on  the  beach) 
might  easily  prove  to  be  Artemis,  and  coming  in 
moon-wise  through  Francis's  window  might  annex 
her  Endymion.  This  seemed  quite  sensible  ...  or 
Caterina  might  float  into  the  garden  in  similar  guise, 
and  carry  off  Pasqualino  .  .  .  perhaps  both  of  these 
love-disasters  might  happen,  and  then  Seraphina 
and  I  alone  would  be  left.  ...  I  should  certainly 
swim  away  to  my  cache,  and  live  on  cigarettes  and 
seaweed,  and  mercury  from  the  thermometer.  ...  I 
should  have  to  break  the  bulb  to  get  at  it,  and  I 
thought  that  I  was  actually  doing  so. 

It  broke  with  a  terrific  crash,  which  completely 
awoke  me.  Another  crash  followed  and  a  scream: 
it  was  the  second  shutter  of  my  window  that  faced 
south  being  blown  against  the  sash,  and  the  scream 
was  that  of  the  pent-up  wind  that  burst  with  the 
suddenness  of  lightning  out  of  the  sky.  On  the  in- 
stant the  house  was  full  of  noises,  other  shutters 
clattered  and  banged,  my  open  door  slammed  to, 
as  the  Scirocco  howled  along  the  passage,  as  if  mak- 
ing a  raid  to  search  the  house.  My  pile  of  un- 
answered businesses  rose  like  a  snowdrift  from  the 
table,  and  were  littered  over  the  room;  the  wine 


58  UP  AND  DOWN 

flask  and  its  myrtle  overturned ;  a  pot  of  geraniums 
on  the  edge  of  the  terrace  came  crashing  down.  In 
a  moment  the  whole  stagnation  of  the  world  was 
rent  to  ribands,  and  the  ribands  went  flying  on  the 
wings  of  the  wind.  There  was  no  doubt  about  foot- 
steps now:  Pasqualino  came  rushing  in  from  the 
garden,  Seraphina  left  her  kitchen  and  bundled  up- 
stairs, and  I  collided  with  Francis  as  we  ran  into 
the  studio  to  close  the  windows.  Never  have  I 
known  so  surprising  a  pounce  of  the  elemental  forces 
of  the  world.  A  volcano  bursting  in  flame  and 
lava  at  one's  feet,  a  war  suddenly  springing  full- 
armed  in  a  peaceful  country,  could  not  have  shat- 
tered stillness  with  so  unheralded  an  uproar. 

Five  minutes  served  to  bolt  and  bar  the  southern 
and  western  aspects  of  the  house  from  the  quarter 
of  the  gale,  and  five  more  to  repair  the  damage  of 
its  first  assault.  After  that  we  listened  with  glee 
to  its  bellowing,  and  while  Seraphina  made  tea,  I 
went  out  of  an  eastern  entrance  to  gain  further 
acquaintance  with  this  savage  south-wester  at  first 
hand.  It  threw  me  back  like  a  hot  wave  when  I 
emerged  from  the  sheltered  side  of  the  house  into 
its  full  blast,  but  soon,  leaning  against  it,  I  crept 
across  the  garden  to  the  lower  terrace.  The  olive- 
trees  were  bending  to  it,  as  if  some  savage,  invisible 
fish  had  taken  a  bait  they  held  out;  twigs  and 
branches  were  scurrying  along  the  paths,  and  mixed 
with  them  were  the  petals  and  the  buds  of  flowers 
that  should  have  made  July  gay  for  us.  A  whirl 
of  blue  blossoms  was  squibbing  off  the  tangle  of 


JUNE,  1914  59 

morning-glory;  even  the  red  pillar- trunk  of  the 
stone-pine  groaned  as  the  wind  drove  through  its 
umbrella  of  dense  foliage.  The  sun  was  quite  hid- 
den; only  a  pale  discolourment  in  the  sky  showed 
where  it  travelled,  and  to  the  south  the  sea  was  al- 
ready a  sheet  of  whipped  wave-tops  under  this 
Niagara  of  wind.  It  was  impossible  to  stand  there 
long,  and  soon  I  let  myself  be  blown  back  up  the 
garden  and  round  the  comer  of  the  house  into  calm. 
Upstairs  Francis  was  already  at  tea;  he  had  picked 
up  the  sheet  of  the  Italian  paper  which  he  had  only 
glanced  at  during  lunch. 

"Serajevo  appears  to  be  in  Servia,"  he  said,  "or 
Bosnia.     One  of  those  countries." 

"Oh,  the  murder!"  said  I.  "The  garden's  in  an 
awful  mess." 

"I  suppose  so.  Tea?" 


JULY,  1914. 

For  the  last  seven  weeks  not  a  drop  of  rain  has 
fallen  on  the  island.  The  great  Scirocco  of  June 
brought  none  with  it,  and  when  that  three  days' 
hurricane  was  over,  we  returned  to  the  wonderful 
calm  weather  that  preceded  it.  Already  nearly  a 
month  before  the  ordinary  time  the  grape  clusters 
are  beginning  to  grow  tight-skinned  on  the  vines, 
and  we  expect  an  unprecedented  vintage,  for  the 
Scirocco,  though  violent  enough  on  the  south  of 
the  island,  did  no  damage  to  the  northern  slopes, 
where  are  the  most  of  the  vineyards.  But  the 
dearth  of  water  is  already  becoming  serious,  for 
depending,  as  we  do,  on  the  cisterns  where  the  rain 
is  stored,  it  is  full  time  that  replenishment  came  to 
their  ebbing  surfaces.  For  the  last  fortnight,  un- 
able to  spare  water  for  other  than  household  pur- 
poses, we  have  been  obliged  to  maroon  the  gar- 
den, so  to  speak,  on  a  desert  island,  and  already 
many  householders  are  buying  water  for  purposes 
of  ablution  and  cooking.  Indeed,  when,  last  night, 
the  sprightly  Pasqualino  announced  that  there  was 
only  half  a  metre  of  water  left  in  the  second  cis- 
tern (the  first  one  we  improvidently  emptied  in 
order  to  clean  it),  and  that  the  Signori  would  have 
to  have  their  risotto  and  macaroni  boiled  in  the 

60 


JULY,  1914  61 

wine- juice,  of  which  there  promised  so  remarkable 
a  supply,  Seraphina,  who  had  come  upstairs  for 
orders,  told  him  pretty  roundly  that  if  this  was 
meant  for  a  joke,  it  was  in  the  worst  possible  taste, 
for  it  was  she  who  ordered  the  wine,  and  was 
responsible  for  the  lowness  of  the  Signori's  bills. 
Upon  which  Pasqualino  sinuously  retired  with  a 
deprecating  smile,  leaving  Seraphina,  flushed  with 
victory,  in  possession  of  the  field.  ...  In  fact  the 
situation  is  so  serious,  she  proceeded  to  tell  us,  that 
the  priests  have  arranged  that  the  silver  image  of 
San  Costanzo  is  to-night  to  be  taken  in  proces- 
sion from  the  cathedral,  where  it  usually  abides, 
down  to  the  Marina,  where  an  altar  is  to  be  set  up 
for  him  close  to  the  quay,  and  fire-works  to  be  let 
off,  so  that  he  may  be  gratified  and  by  making  inter- 
cession cause  the  rain  we  so  sorely  need  to  fall. 

Certainly  that  seems  a  very  sensible  idea.  The 
islanders  adore  fireworks  and  processions,  and  it  is 
only  reasonable  of  them  to  endow  their  saints  with 
the  same  amiable  tastes.  San  Costanzo,  like  all 
sensible  folk,  whether  saints  or  sinners,  delights  in 
fireworks  and  processions,  and  of  course  he  will  be 
pleased  to  do  his  best  after  that.  (As  a  matter  of 
fact,  though  I  hate  cynicism,  I  cannot  help  remem- 
bering that  the  barometer  has  been  falling  these 
last  three  days,  and  I  wonder  whether  the  priests 
who  have  arranged  this  festa  for  San  Costanzo  know 
that.     I  hope  not.) 

Seraphina's  informant  on  these  matters  was  not 
the  priest,  anyhow,  but  Teresa  of  the  cake  shop. 


62  UP  AND  DOWN 

"And  is  Teresa  then  going  down  to  the  Marina?" 
I  asked. 

Seraphina  threw  open  her  hands  and  tossed  back 
her  head  in  emphatic  denial.  The  Signor  surely 
knew  very  well  (or  if  he  did  not,  Signorino  Fran- 
cesco did)  that  it  was  twelve  years  now  since  Ter- 
esa had  gone  down  to  the  port,  and  never  again 
would  she  set  foot  on  that  ill-omened  quay.  La 
povera!  .  .  .  And  Seraphina  stood  in  silence  a 
moment,  gravely  shaking  her  head.  Then  she 
threw  off  the  melancholy  train  of  thou^t  into 
which  the  mention  of  Teresa  had  led  her. 

"The  meat  comes  from  Naples  to-morrow,"  she 
announced.  "For  dinner  then  a  piece  of  roast  meat 
and  the  fish  that  Nino  has  promised  and  a  soup  of 
vegetables.  Ecco!  And  there  will  be  no  cooking  in 
wine  as  that  scamp  said." 

Afterwards  Francis  told  me  why  Teresa  of  the 
cake  shop  never  goes  down  to  the  Marina,  though 
festas  and  fireworks  beckon,  and  though  San  Cos- 
tanzo's  silver  image  is  borne  there  in  solemn  pro- 
cession, so  that  he  may  intercede  for  us,  and  cause 
to  break  up  the  brazen  sky.  It  filled  up  in  the  tell- 
ing the  studious  or  basking  stage  of  our  bathe  next 
morning. 

"Fifteen  years  ago,"  he  said,  "when  first  I  came 
to  the  enchanted  island,  Teresa  Stall  was  the  pret- 
tiest maid  and  the  daintiest  cook  in  all  Alatri.  That 
year  I  took  for  six  months  the  Villa  Bardi,  which 
belonged  to  her  father,  who  told  me  that  if  I  was 


JULY,  1914  63 

in  need  of  a  cook  he  could  supply  me  with  one  of 
whom  I  should  have  no  complaints.  So,  if  I  had 
not  already  got  one,  Teresa  would  do  everything  I 
needed — cook  my  food,  look  after  the  garden,  and 
keep  the  house  as  bright  as  a  Sunday  brooch. 
Teresa,  he  explained,  was  his  daughter,  a  good  girl, 
and  would  I  interview  her.  In  answer  to  his  loud 
cries  of  Teresa!  Teresina!'  taken  up  by  shrill  voices 
along  the  street,  there  came  to  the  door  a  vision 
of  tall  black-haired  maidenhood. 

"  'She  is  strong,  too,'  said  her  grinning  parent, 
clapping  her  on  the  shoulder.  'Eh,  the  Signor  should 
have  seen  her  bump  the  heads  of  her  two  brothers 
together  last  week,  when  they  threw  stones  at  the 
washing  she  had  hung  up  to  dry.  Bang!  bang! 
they  will  not  meddle  with  Teresina's  washing 
again!' 

"Of  course  I  engaged  this  paragon,  and  never  has 
a  house  been  so  resplendent,  never  were  such  meals 
offered  for  the  refreshment  of  the  esurient  sons  of 
men,  as  when  Teresa  was  Prime  Minister  in  the 
Villa  Bardi.  She  was  scarcely  capable,  it  seemed, 
of  walking,  for  her  nimble  feet  broke  into  a  run 
whenever  more  than  a  yard  or  two  must  be  tra- 
versed; household  work  was  a  festival  to  her,  and 
she  sang  as  she  emptied  slops.  Flowers,  fresh  every 
day,  decked  my  table;  you  could  have  eaten  off 
the  floors,  and  each  morning  my  shoes  shone  with 
speckless  whitening.  One  thing  alone  had  power 
to  depress  her,  and  that  if  by  chance  I  went  out 
to  dine  with  friends,  so  that  there  was  no  oppor- 


64  UP  AND  DOWN 

tunity  that  evening  for  her  kitchen-magic.  The 
antidote  was  that  on  another  day  someone  would 
dine  with  me,  so  that  others  beside  her  own  signor 
should  taste  the  perfect  fruits  of  her  oven. 

"Often,  when  the  table  was  cleared  in  the  eve- 
ning, and  she  came  to  get  orders  for  next  day  before 
going  back  to  her  father's  house  for  the  night,  she 
would  stop  and  talk  to  me,  for,  in  that  she  was  in 
my  household,  she  was  of  my  family,  identified 
with  my  interests  and  I  with  hers.  By  degrees  I 
learned  her  domestic  history,  how  there  was  a 
brother  doing  his  military  service,  how  there  were 
two  younger  boys  still  at  home,  whom  Satan  con- 
tinually inspired  to  unspeakable  deeds  (of  which 
the  stoning  of  her  washing  was  among  the  milder) ; 
how  her  mother  had  taught  her  all  she  knew  of  cook- 
ing, how  her  father  was  the  best  carpenter  in  all 
South  Italy,  so  that  he  had  orders  from  Naples, 
from  Salerno,  from  Rome  even.  And,  finally,  she 
told  me  about  herself,  how  that  she  was  engaged 
to  Vincenzo  Rhombo,  of  Santa  Agatha,  who  had 
gone  to  Buenos  Ayres  to  seek  his  fortune,  and  was 
.finding  it,  too,  with  both  hands.  He  had  been  gone 
for  two  years  now,  and  last  year  he  had  sent  her 
seven  hundred  francs  to  keep  for  him.  Every  year 
he  was  going  to  send  her  all  he  saved,  and  when 
he  came  home,  Dio!  .  .  . 

"The  post  used  to  arrive  about  half-past  eight  in 
the  morning,  and  was  announced  by  sepulchral 
knocking  on  the  garden  door,  on  which  Teresa,  if 
she  was  brushing  and  tidying  upstairs,  flew  down 


JULY,  1914  65 

to  take  in  the  letters,  duster  in  hand,  or  with  what- 
ever occupied  her  busy  fingers  at  the  moment.  From 
there  she  rushed  along  the  garden  terrace  to  where 
I  was  breakfasting  underneath  the  pergola,  bring- 
ing me  my  letters.  But  one  morning,  I  saw  her 
take  them  in,  and  instead  of  coming  to  me,  she 
sat  down  on  the  steps  and  remained  there  a  long 
time,  reading.    Eventually  I  called  to  her. 

"Nothing  for  me,  Teresa?'^  I  asked. 

Instantly  she  sprang  up. 

*'  Tardon — a  thousand  pardons,'  she  said.  'There 
are  two  letters,  and  a  packet,  a  great  packet.' 

"  'And  you  have  had  a  packet?'  I  asked. 

"  'Jesu!  Such  a  packet!  May  I  show  the  Signor? 
Look,  here  is  Vincenzo,  his  very  self!  And  again 
seven  hundred  francs.  Ah,  it  is  Vincenzo!  I  can 
hear  him  laughing.' 

''She  laid  the  photograph  before  me,  and,  indeed, 
you  could  hear  Vincenzo  laughing.  The  merry  hand- 
some face  was  thrown  back,  with  mouth  half  open. 

"  'And  such  news!'  she  said.  'He  has  done  better 
than  ever  this  year,  and  has  bought  a  piece  of  land, 
or  he  would  have  sent  even  more  money  home.    And 

at  the  end '  she  turned  over  the  sheets,  'at  the 

end  he  writes  in  English,  which  he  is  learning.  What 
does  it  mean,  Signor?' 

"This  is  what  Vincenzo  had  written: 

"  'My  corrospondence  must  now  stopp,  my  Tere- 
sina,  but  never  stopps  my  love  for  you.  Across  the 
sea  come  my  kisses,  O  my  Teresina,  and  from  the 


66  UP  AND  DOWN 

Heart  of  your  Vincenzo.  I  kiss  my  corrospondence, 
and  I  put  it  in  the  envelop.' 

"I  translated  this  and  turned  to  the  dim-eyed 
Teresina. 

"  'And  that  is  better  than  all  the  money/  she 
said. 

"Then  she  became  suddenly  conscious  that  she 
was  carrying  my  trousers,  which  she  was  brushing 
when  the  knock  of  the  postman  came. 

"'Dio!  What  a  slut  is  Teresina!'  she  exclaimed. 
'Scusi,  Signor.' 

"I  went  back  to  England  at  the  termination  of 
my  lease  of  the  Villa  Bardi,  for  interviews  with 
stormy  uncles,  and  the  settlement  of  many  busi- 
nesses, and  it  was  some  months  later  that  I  set  off 
on  my  return  here,  with  j&nality  in  my  movements. 
On  the  way  I  had  intended  to  stop  half  a  week  in 
Naples  to  take  my  last  draught  of  European  cul- 
ture. But  the  sight  of  Alatri  on  the  evening  I 
arrived  there,  harp-shaped  and  swimming  molten 
in  a  June  sunset,  proved  too  potent  a  magnet. 
Besides,  there  was  reputed  to  be  a  great  deal  of 
cholera  in  Naples,  and  I  have  no  use  for  cholera. 
So,  early  next  morning  I  embarked  at  the  Castello 
d'  Ovo  to  come  back  to  my  beloved  island. 

"It  was  a  morning  made  for  such  islanders  as 
I:  the  heat  was  intense  but  lively,  and  the  first 
thing  to  do  on  landing  was  to  'Mediterranizer' 
myself,  as  Nietzsche  says,  and  bathe,  wash  off  the 
Btain  of  the  mainland  and  of  civilization,  and  be 


JULY,  1914  67 

baptized,  finally  baptized,  into  this  dreamland  life. 
I  often  wonder  whether  dreams " 

"Stick  to  your  story,"  said  I.    "It's  about  Teresa." 

Francis  shifted  on  his  elbow. 

"There  was  a  bucketful  of  changes  here,"  he  said, 
"and  I  was  disconcerted,  because  I  expected  to  find 
everything  exactly  as  I  had  left  it.  Alatri  is  the 
sleeping-beauty — isn't  it  true? — and  the  years  pass, 
and  you  expect  to  see  her  exactly  as  she  was  in 
the  nineties.  But  now  they  were  talking  of  a  funic- 
ular railway  to  connect  the  Marina  with  the  town, 
and  Giovanni,  the  boatman,  had  married,  and  they 
said  his  wife  had  already  cured  him  of  his  habits. 
Oh,  she  brushed  his  hair  for  him,  she  did!  And  a 
damned  American  had  started  a  lending  library, 
and  we  were  all  going  to  enlarge  our  minds  on  a 
circulating  system,  and  there  was  a  bathing  estab- 
lishment planned,  where  on  Sunday  afternoon  you 
could  drink  your  sirop  to  the  sound  of  a  band,  and 
see  the  sluts  from  Naples.  But  it  fell  into  the  sea 
all  right,  and  the  posts  of  it  are  covered  with  bar- 
nacles. Far  more  important  it  was  that  Teresa 
had  opened  a  cake-shop  in  a  superb  position,  as  you 
know,  close  to  the  Piazza,  so  that  when  you  come 
in  from  your  walk  you  cannot  help  buying  a  cake: 
the  force  of  its  suggestion  is  irresistible.  She  opened 
it  with  good  money,  too,  the  money  that  Vincenzo 
had  sent  her  back  from  Buenos  Ayres.  The  cake- 
shop  was  now  proceeding  famously,  and  it  was 
believed  that  Teresa  was  making  twenty  per  cent, 
on  her  outlay,  which  is  as  much  as  you  can  hope 


68  UP  AND  DOWN 

to  get  with  safety.  But  it  had  been — the  cake-shop 
— a  prodigious  risk;  for  a  month  when  the  island 
was  empty  it  had  not  prospered,  and  Teresa's  family 
distended  their  poor  stomachs  nightly  with  the 
cakes  that  were  left  unsold  that  day,  for  Teresa 
had  high  ideas,  and  would  have  nothing  stale  in 
her  shop.  She  brought  the  unsold  things  home 
every  nig  thin  a  bag,  for  fresh  every  morning  must 
be  her  cakes,  and  so  the  family  ate  the  old  ones  and 
saved  the  money  for  their  supper.  Rich  they  were, 
many  of  them,  and  stuffed  with  cream. 

"But  after  an  anxious  four  weeks  the  forestieri 
began  to  arrive,  and  under  their  patronage,  up 
went  Teresa's  cake-shop  like  a  rocket.  Customers 
increased  and  jostled;  and  Teresa,  the  daring,  the 
audacious,  took  good  luck  on  the  wing,  and  started 
a  tea-place  on  the  balcony  above  the  cake-shop, 
and  bought  four  iron-legged,  marble-topped  tea- 
tables,  and  linen  napkins,  no  less.  She  washed  these 
incessantly,  for  her  teaplace  was  always  full,  and 
Teresa  would  no  more  have  dirty  napkins  than  she 
would  have  stale  cakes.    That  is  Teresa! 

"Business  expanded.  One  of  the  two  young 
brothers  (whose  heads  she  so  soundingly  knocked 
together)  she  now  employed  in  the  baking  of  her 
cakes,  and  for  the  other  she  bought,  straight  off,  a 
suit  of  white  drill  with  ten  thousand  bone  buttons, 
and  gave  him  employment  in  bringing  the  tea-trays 
up  to  the  customers  in  the  balcony.  She  paid  them 
both  good  wages,  but  Satan,  as  usual,  entered  into 
their  malicious  heads,  and  once  in  the  height  of  the 


JULY,  1914  69 

season  they  confabulated,  and  thought  themselves 
indispensable,  and  struck  for  higher  wages.  Else 
they  would  no  longer  bake  or  hand  the  bakeries. 

"A  less  supreme  spirit  than  Teresa's  might  have 
given  in,  and  raised  their  wages.  Instead  she  hur- 
ried their  departure,  and  no  whit  discouraged,  she 
rose  at  four  in  the  morning,  and  baked,  and  when 
afternoon  came  had  all  ready,  and  flew  upstairs 
and  downstairs,  and  never  was  there  so  good  a  tea 
as  at  Teresa's,  nor  so  quickly  served.  In  three  days 
she  had  broken  the  fraternal  strike,  and  the  baffled 
brothers  begged  to  be  taken  back.  Then  Teresa, 
who  had  been  too  busy  to  attend  to  them  before,  for 
she  was  doing  their  work  in  addition  to  her  own, 
condescended  to  them,  and  told  them  what  she 
really  thought  of  them.  She  sat  in  a  chair,  did 
Teresa,  and  loosed  her  tongue.  There  was  a  blister- 
ing of  paint  that  day  on  the  balcony,  though  some 
said  it  was  only  the  sun  which  had  caused  it.  .  .  . 

"Two  sad-faced  males  returned  to  their  work  next 
day,  at  a  stipend  of  five  francs  per  month  less  than 
they  had  hitherto  received.  The  island,  which  had 
watched  the  crisis  with  the  intensest  interest,  loud- 
ly applauded  her  spirit,  and  told  the  discouraged 
but  repentant  labour-party  that  only  a  good-hearted 
sister  would  have  taken  them  back  at  all.  She  had 
not  even  smacked  them,  which  she  was  perfectly 
capable  of  doing,  in  spite  of  their  increasing  inches, 
but  perhaps  her  tongue  was  even  more  stinging  than 
the  flat  of  her  hand.  Great  was  Teresa  of  the 
cake-shop ! 


70  UP  AND  DOWN 

"All  this  I  heard,  and  the  best  news  of  all  re- 
mained to  tell,  for  Vincenzo  was  even  now  on  his 
way  back  from  Buenos  Ayres.  He  had  made  a  tre- 
mendous hit  with  the  land  he  had  bought  last  sum- 
mer, had  money  enough  to  pay  off  the  mortgages 
on  his  father's  farm  at  Santa  Agatha,  and  he  and 
Teresa  would  marry  at  once.  Then,  alas!  Alatri 
would  know  Teresa  no  more,  for  she  would  live 
with  her  husband  on  the  mainland.  Already  she 
had  been  made  a  very  decent  offer  for  the  appur- 
tenances and  goodwill  of  the  cake-shop,  which,  so 
she  told  me,  she  was  secretly  inclined  to  accept. 
But  according  to  the  proper  ritual  of  bargaining, 
she  had,  of  course,  refused  it,  and  told  Giorgio  Stofa 
that  when  he  had  a  sensible  proposition  to  make  to 
her,  he  might  call  again.  Giorgio,  a  mean  man  by 
all  accounts,  had  been  seen  going  to  the  bank  that 
morning,  and  Teresa  expected  him  to  call  again 
very  soon. 

"This  conversation  took  place  in  the  cake-shop 
while  all  the  time  she  bustled  about,  now  diving 
into  the  bake-house  to  stimulate  the  industry  of 
Giovanni,  now  flying  up  to  the  balcony  to  see  if 
Satan's  other  limb  had  put  flowers  on  the  marble- 
topped  tables.  Then,  for  a  moment  there  was  peace, 
and  love  looked  out  of  Teresa's  eyes. 

"  ^Eh,  Signor,'  she  said.  ^Vincenzo  will  be  home, 
if  God  wills,  by  the  day  of  Corpus  Domini.  What 
a  festal  Dio!  What  a  festa  will  that  be!' 

"The  serene  island  days  began  to  unroll  them- 
selves again,  with  long  swimmings,  long  baskings 


JULY,  1914  71 

on  the  beach,  long  siestas  on  grilling  afternoons, 
when  the  whole  island  lay  mute  till  the  evening 
coolness  began,  and  only  the  cicalas  chirped  in  the 
oleanders.  Then,  as  the  heat  of  the  day  declined, 
I  would  often  have  tea  on  Teresa's  balcony,  and  on 
one  such  afternoon  the  great  news  came,  and  Te- 
resa put  into  my  hand  the  telegram  she  had  just 
received  from  Naples,  which  told  her  that  Vincen- 
zo's  ship  had  arrived,  and  that  her  lover  had  come 
back.  Business  necessary  to  transact  would  detain 
him  there  for  a  day,  and  for  another  day  he  must 
be  at  Santa  Agatha,  but  on  the  morning  of  Corpus 
Domini  he  would  come  to  Alatri,  by  the  steamer  that 
arrived  at  noon.  .  .  . 

"  ^Six  years  since  he  went,'  said  Teresa.  ^And 
oh,  Signor,  it  is  but  as  a  day.  We  shall  keep  the 
festa  together  and  see  the  fireworks.  .  .  .  We  shall 
go  up  into  the  rockets/  she  cried  in  a  sudden  kind- 
ling of  her  tongue.  We  shall  be  golden  rain,  Vin- 
cenzo  and  I.' 

"  'And  I  shall  stand  below,  oh,  so  far  below,'  said 
I,  'and  clap  my  hands,  and  say  "Eccoli!"  That  is, 
if  I  approve  of  Vincenzo.' 

''Teresa  put  her  hands  together. 

"  'Eh !  but  will  Vincenzo  approve  of  me?'  she  said. 
'Will  he  think  I  have  grown  old?  Six  years!  Oh, 
a  long  time.' 

"  'It  is  to  be  hoped  that  Vincenzo  will  not  be  a 
pumpkin,'  I  remarked.  'Give  me  the  large  sort  of 
cake,  Teresa.    I  will  carry  it  up  to  the  Villa.' 

"Teresa  frowned. 


72  UP  AND  DOWN 

"  The  cakes  are  a  little  heavy  to-day/  she  said. 
^I  had  a  careless  hand.  You  had  better  take  two 
small  ones,  and  if  you  do  not  like  them,  you  will 
send  back  the  second.    Grazie  tante,  Signor.' 

"The  news  that  Vincenzo  was  to  arrive  by  the 
mid-day  boat  on  Corpus  Domini,  spread  through 
the  town,  and  all  Teresa's  family  and  friends  were 
down  at  the  Marina  to  give  him  welcome.  A  heavy 
boat-load  of  visitors  was  expected,  and  the  little 
pier  was  cleared  of  loungers,  so  that  the  disem- 
barkation in  small  boats  from  the  steamer  might 
be  unimpeded.  But  by  special  permission  Teresa 
was  given  access  to  the  landing-steps,  so  that  she 
might  be  the  first  to  meet  her  lover,  even  as  he 
set  foot  on  the  shore,  and  there,  bare-headed  and 
twinkling  with  all  her  festa  finery,  she  waited  for 
him.  In  the  first  boat-load  that  put  off  from  the 
steamer  he  came,  standing  in  the  prow,  and  wav- 
ing to  her,  while  she  stood  with  clasped  hands  and 
her  heart  eager  with  love.  He  was  the  first  to 
spring  ashore,  leaping  across  to  the  steps  before 
the  boat  had  come  alongside,  and  with  a  great  cry, 
jubiliant  and  young,  he  caught  Teresa  to  him,  and 
for  a  supreme  moment  they  stood  there,  clasped  in 
each  other's  arms.  And  then  he  seemed  to  fall 
from  her  and  collapsed  suddenly  on  the  quay,  and 
lay  there  writhing.  .  .  .The  cholera  that  was  preva- 
lent in  Naples  had  him  in  his  grip,  and  in  two  hours 
he  was  dead.  .  .  ." 

Francis  sat  silent  a  little  after  the  end  of  his  story. 

"So  now  you  know,"  he  said,  "why  for  fourteen 


JULY,  1914  73 

years  Teresa  of  the  cake-shop  has  never  gone  down 
to  the  Marina." 


That  night,  when  the  thud  and  reverberation  of 
the  fireworks  began  down  on  the  Marina,  Francis 
and  I  went  into  the  town  to  see  them  from  above. 
The  Piazza  was  deserted,  for  all  Alatri  had  gone 
down  to  the  port  to  take  part  in  this  procession 
and  explosion  in  honour  of  San  Costanzo,  so  that 
he  might  make  intercession  and  send  rain  to  the 
parched  island,  and  we  went  out  on  to  the  broad 
paved  platform  which  overlooks  the  Marina.  This, 
too,  seemed  to  be  deserted,  and  perched  on  the 
railing  that  surrounds  it,  we  watched  the  golden 
streaks  of  the  ascending  rockets,  and  their  flower- 
ing into  many-coloured  fires.  At  this  distance  the 
reports  reached  the  ear  some  seconds  after  their 
burstings;  their  plumes  of  flame  had  vanished  be- 
fore their  echoes  flapped  in  the  cliffs  of  Honte  Gen- 
naro.  The  moon  was  not  yet  risen,  and  their  splen- 
dour burned  brilliantly  against  the  dark  back- 
ground of  the  star-sown  sky.  By  and  by  a  whole 
sheaf  of  them  went  up  together,  and  afterwards  a 
detonating  bomb  showed  that  the  exhibition  was 
over.  And  then  we  saw  that  we  were  not  alone, 
for  in  the  dark  at  the  far  end  of  the  railings  a  black 
figure  was  watching.  She  turned  and  came  towards 
us,  and  I  saw  who  it  was. 

''You  have  been  looking  at  the  fireworks,  Teresa?" 
said  Francis. 

''Sissignor.  They  have  been  very  good.    San  Cos- 


74  UP  AND  DOWN 

tanzo  should  send  us  rain  after  that.  But  who 
knows?     It  is  God's  will,  after  all." 

''Surely.    And  how  goes  it?" 

She  smiled  at  him  with  that  sweet  patient  face, 
out  of  which  fourteen  years  ago  all  joy  and  fire 
died. 

"The  cake-shop?"  she  said.  "Oh,  it  prospers.  It 
always  prospers.  I  am  trying  a  new  recipe  to-mor- 
row— a  meringue." 

"And  you — you  yourself?"  he  asked. 

"I?  I  am  always  well.  But  often  I  am  tired  of 
waiting.  Pazienza!  ShaU  I  send  some  of  the  new 
meringues  up  to  the  Villa,  if  they  turn  out  well, 
Signor?" 

Francis  had  an  inexplicable  longing  that  evening 
to  play  chess,  and  as  he  despises  the  sort  of  chess 
I  play  with  the  same  completeness  as  I  despise  par- 
snips, I  left  him  with  someone  less  contemptible  at 
the  cafe,  and  strolled  up  to  the  Villa  again  alone, 
going  along  the  paved  way  that  overlooks  the  sea 
to  the  south.  High  up  was  hung  an  amazing  planet, 
and  I  felt  rather  glad  I  was  no  astronomer,  and 
knew  not  which  it  was,  for  the  noblest  of  names 
would  have  been  unworthy  of  that  celestial  jewel. 
As  if  it  had  been  a  moon,  the  reflection  of  its 
splendour  made  a  golden  path  across  the  sea,  and 
posturing  in  its  light,  I  found  that  it  actually  cast 
a  vague  shadow  of  me  against  a  whitewashed  wall. 
To  the  east  the  rim  of  the  hill,  where  is  situated 
the  wireless  station,  was  beginning  to  stand  out 
very  black  against  a  dove-coloured  sky,  and  before 


JULY,  1914  75 

I  had  reached  the  steep  steps  that  lead  past  the  gar- 
den wall,  the  rim  of  the  full  moon  had  cut  the 
hill-top,  dimming  the  stars  around  it,  and  swiftly 
ascending,  a  golden  bubble  in  the  waters  of  the  firm- 
ament, it  had  shot  up  clear  of  the  horizon  and  re- 
fashioned the  world  again  in  ivory  and  black.  All 
the  gamut  of  colours  was  dipped  anew;  blues  were 
translated  into  a  velvety  grey,  so  too  were  greens, 
and  though  the  eye  could  see  the  difference,  it  was 
impossible  to  say  what  the  difference  was.  Simply 
what  we  caU  blue  by  daylight  became  some  kind 
of  grey;  what  we  call  green  a  totally  distinct  kind 
of  grey  and  blacker  than  the  darkest  shadow  of  the 
stone-pine  was  the  shouting  scarlet  of  the  geran- 
iums. No  painter  (pace  the  Whistlerians)  has  ever 
so  faintly  suggested  the  magic  of  moon-colouring, 
and  small  blame  to  him,  since  the  tone  of  it  can- 
not be  rendered  in  pictures  that  are  seen  in  the  day- 
light. But  if  you  take  the  picture  of  a  sunny  day, 
and  look  at  it  in  moonlight,  you  will  see,  not  a  day- 
light picture,  but  a  moonlight  scene.  The  same 
thing  holds  with  daylight  scents  and  night-scents, 
and  the  fragrance  of  the  verbena  by  the  house  wall 
was  not  only  dimmer  in  quality,  but  different  in 
tone.  It  was  recognizable  but  different,  ghost-like, 
disembodied  without  the  smack  of  the  sun  in  it. 

I  strolled  about  for  a  little,  and  then  having  (as 
usual)  writing  on  hand  that  should  have  been  done 
days  before,  I  went  reluctantly  into  the  house.  I 
was  quite  alone  in  it,  for  Seraphina  had  gone  home, 
Pasqualino  was  down  at  the  Marina  taking  part  in 


76  UP  AND  DOWN 

fireworks  and  festa,  and  I  had  left  Francis  in  a 
stuffy  cafe  pondering  on  gambits.  We  had  dined 
early  by  reason  of  the  fireworks,  and  before  going 
up  to  my  sitting-room  to  work,  I  foraged  for  cake 
and  wine  in  the  kitchen,  and  carried  these  upstairs. 
It  was  very  hot,  and  I  went  first  into  the  studio, 
where  I  set  the  windows  wide,  and  next  into  Fran- 
cis's room  and  Pasqualino's,  where  I  did  the  same. 
Then  I  came  back  to  my  own  room,  exactly  opposite 
the  studio,  and,  stripped  to  shirt  and  trousers,  with 
door  and  windows  wide,  I  sat  down  for  an  hour's 
writing. 

There  is  no  such  incentive  to  constructive  thought 
as  the  knowledge  that,  humanly  speaking,  inter- 
ruption is  impossible.  Seraphina  would  not  return 
till  morning,  while  festa  and  chess  would  undoubt- 
edly detain  Pasqualino  and  Francis  for  the  next 
couple  of  hours.  I  had  a  luxurious  sense  of  secur- 
ity; should  I  be  so  fortunate  as  to  strike  the  vein 
I  was  delving  for,  I  could  go  on  mining  there  with- 
out let  or  hindrance.  Reluctant  though  I  had  been 
to  begin,  I  speedily  found  myself  delightfully  en- 
grossed in  what  I  was  doing.  Probably  it  did  not 
amount  to  much,  but  the  illusion  in  the  author's 
mind,  when  he  tinkers  away  at  his  tale,  that  he  is 
doing  something  vastly  important,  is  one  that  is 
never  shaken,  even  though  he  continually  finds 
out  afterwards  that  the  masterpiece  has  missed  fire 
again.  While  he  is  engaged  on  his  scribbling  (given 
that  his  pen  is  in  an  interpreting  frame  of  mind, 


JULY,  1914  77 

and  records  without  too  many  stumblings  the  dic- 
tation his  brain  gives  it),  he  is  in  that  Jerusalem 
that  opens  its  gates  of  pearl  only  to  the  would-be 
artist,  be  he  painter  or  poet  or  writer  or  sculptor. 
He  is  constructing,  recording  his  impressions,  and 
though  (I  hasten  to  repeat)  they  may  be  totally 
unworthy  of  record,  he  doesn't  think  so  when  he 
is  engaged  on  them,  for  if  he  did,  he  would  be  con- 
scious of  external  affairs,  his  mind  would  wander, 
and  he  would  stop.  Often,  of  course,  that  happens, 
but  there  are  other  blessed  occasions  when  he  is 
engulfed  by  his  own  imaginings,  and  absorbed  in 
the  reproduction  of  them. 

It  was  so  with  me  that  night,  when  I  sat  quite 
alone  in  the  silent  house,  knowing  that  none  could 
disturb  me  for  a  couple  of  hours  to  come.  Italy, 
even  the  fact  that  I  was  in  Italy,  vanished  from 
my  mind,  and  for  the  sake  of  the  curious,  at  the 
risk  of  egoism,  I  may  mention  that  I  was  with 
Mrs.  Hancock  in  her  bedroom  in  her  horrid  villa 
called  Arundel,  and  looking  over  her  jewels  with 
her,  to  see  what  she  could  spare,  without  missing 
it,  as  a  wedding  present  for  her  daughter.  Engaged 
in  that  trivial  pursuit,  I  lost  conscious  touch  with 
everything  else. 

Quite  suddenly  a  very  ordinary  noise,  though  as 
startling  as  the  ringing  of  a  telephone-bell  at  my 
elbow,  where  there  was  no  telephone,  snatched  me 
away  from  my  imaginings.  There  was  a  step  in 
the  studio  just  opposite,  and  I  made  no  doubt  that 
Francis  had  got  home,  had  come  upstairs  without 


78  UP  AND  DOWN 

my  hearing  him,  and  no  doubt  thinking  that  I  was 
at  work,  had  passed  into  the  studio.  But  then, 
looking  at  my  watch,  which  lay  on  the  table  before 
me,  I  saw  that  it  was  still  only  half-past  ten,  and 
that  I  had  been  at  work  (and  he  at  chess)  for 
barely  half  an  hour.  But  there  was  no  reason  that 
I  should  not  go  on  working  for  an  hour  yet,  and 
though  my  sense  of  security  from  interruption  was 
gone,  I  anchored  myself  to  my  page  again.  But 
something  had  snapped;  I  could  not  get  back  into 
Mrs.  Hancock's  bedroom  again,  and  after  a  few 
feeble  sentences,  and  a  corresponding  number  of 
impatient  erasures,  I  came  to  a  full  stop. 

I  sat  there  for  some  ten  minutes  more,  vainly 
endeavouring  to  concentrate  again  over  Mrs.  Han- 
cock's jewels,  but  Francis's  steps  were  in  some  way 
strangely  disturbing.  They  passed  up  the  studio, 
paused  and  returned,  and  paused  and  passed  up 
again.  Then,  but  not  till  then,  there  came  into 
my  mind  the  fact  that  Seraphina  and  Pasqualino 
had  at  different  times  heard  (or  thought  they 
heard)  footsteps  in  the  studio,  and  on  investiga- 
tion had  found  it  empty,  and  I  began  to  wonder, 
still  rather  dimly  and  remotely,  whether  these  were 
indeed  the  pacings  of  Francis  up  and  down  the 
room.  My  reasonable  mind  told  me  that  they  were, 
but  the  recollection  of  those  other  occasions  be- 
came momently  more  vivid,  and  I  got  up  to  see. 

The  door  of  my  room  and  that  of  the  studio  were 
exactly  opposite  each  other,  with  the  width  of  a 
narrow  passage  between  them.     Both  doors  were 


JULY,  1914  79 

open,  and  on  going  into  the  passage  I  saw  that 
the  studio  was  dark  within.  It  seemed  odd  that 
Francis  should  walk  up  and  down,  as  he  was  still 
continuing  to  do,  in  the  dark. 

I  suddenly  felt  an  intense  curiosity  to  know 
whether  this  was  Francis  walking  up  and  down  in 
the  dark,  or  rather  an  intense  desire  to  satisfy  my- 
self that  it  was  not.  The  switch  of  the  electric 
light  was  just  inside  the  door,  and  even  as  my  hand 
fumbled  for  it  I  still  heard  the  steps  quite  close 
to  me.  Next  moment  the  studio  leaped  into  light 
as  I  pressed  the  switch,  and  I  looked  eagerly  up  and 
down  it.  There  was  no  one  there,  though  half  a 
second  before  I  had  heard  the  footsteps  quite  close 
to  me. 

I  stood  there  a  moment,  not  conscious  of  fear, 
though  I  knew  that  for  some  reason  my  heart  was 
creaking  in  my  throat,  and  that  I  felt  an  odd  prickly 
sensation  on  my  head.  But  my  paramount  feeling 
was  curiosity  as  to  who  or  what  it  was  that  went 
walking  here,  my  paramount  consciousness  that, 
though  I  could  see  no  one,  and  the  steps  had  ceased, 
there  was  someone  close  to  me  all  the  time,  watch- 
ing me  not  unkindly.  But  beyond  doubt,  for  all  vis- 
ible presence,  the  studio  was  empty,  and  I  knew  that 
the  search  which  I  now  carried  out,  visiting  the 
darker  corners,  and  going  on  to  the  balcony  out- 
side, from  which  there  was  no  external  communi- 
cation further,  was  all  in  vain.  Whatever  it  was 
that  I,  like  Pasqualino  and  Seraphina,  had  heard, 
it  was  not  a  thing  that  hid  itself.     It  was  there, 


80  UP  AND  DOWN 

waiting  for  us  to  perceive  it,  waiting  for  the  with- 
drawal of  the  shutter  that  separates  the  unseen 
world  from  the  seen.  The  shutter  had  been  partly 
withdrawn,  for  I  had  heard  it;  I  had  also  the  strong 
sense  of  its  presence.  But  I  had  no  conception  as 
to  what  it  was,  except  that  I  felt  it  was  no  evil  or 
malignant  thing. 

I  went  back  to  my  room,  and,  oddly  enough,  di- 
rectly after  so  curious. an  experience,  I  found  my- 
self able  to  concentrate  on  Mrs.  Hancock  again 
without  the  slightest  difficulty,  and  spent  an  ab- 
sorbed hour.  Then  I  heard  the  garden  gate  open, 
there  were  steps  on  the  stairs,  and  a  moment  after- 
wards Francis  came  up.  I  told  him  what  had  hap- 
pened, exactly  as  I  have  set  it  down.  He  asked  a 
few  slightly  scornful  questions,  and  then  proceeded 
to  tell  me  how  he  had  lost  his  king's  bishop.  I 
could  not  ask  scornful  questions  about  that,  but 
it  seemed  very  careless  of  him. 

The  very  next  morning  there  turned  up  informa- 
tion which  seems  to  my  mind  (a  mind  which  Fran- 
cis occasionally  describes  as  credulous)  to  bear  upon 
the  watcher  and  walker  in  the  studio,  and  it  hap- 
pened in  this  wise.  The  days  before,  the  careful 
Seraphina  had  collected  certain  table-cloths,  sheets 
and  socks  that  needed  darning,  and  with  a  view  to 
having  them  thoroughly  well  done,  and  with,  I 
make  no  doubt,  another  motive  as  well  in  her  super- 
stitious mind,  had  given  the  job  to  Donna  Mar- 
gherita,  a  very  ancient  lady,  but  nimble  with  her 


JULY,  1914  81 

needle,   to  whom  we  are  all  very  polite.     Even 
Francis   (though  he  has  admirable  manners  with 
everybody)  goes  out  of  his  way  to  be  civil  to  Donna 
Margherita,  and  no  one,  who  is  at  all  prudent,  will 
fail  to  give  her  a  ^^Good  day"  if  he  passes  her  in  the 
street.    But  if  the  wayfarer  sees  Donna  Margherita 
coming  in  his  direction,  and  thinks  she  has  not  yet 
seen  him,  he  will,  if  he  is  prudent,  turn  round  and 
walk  in  another  direction.     I  have  known  Francis 
to  do  that  on  some  paltry  excuse  (and  he  says  I 
have  a  credulous  mind!),  but  his  real  reason  is 
that  though  he  would  not  admit  it,  he  is  aware  that 
Donna  Margherita  has  the  evil  eye.    Consequently 
we  islanders  must  not  vex  her  or  be  other  than 
scrupulously  civil  to  her,  though  we  keep  out  of 
her  way  if  we  can,  and  when  we  must  pass  her 
it  is  wise  to  make  the  sign  of  the  Cross  surrepti- 
tiously.    We  do  not  talk  about  her  much,  for  it 
is  as  well  not  to  get  near  the  confines  of  dangerous 
things;  but  before  now  Pasqualino  has  told  me  of 
various  occurrences  which  to  his  mind  put  it  beyond 
all  doubt  that  Donna  Margherita  has  the  jettatura. 
There  was  that  affair  of  his  uncle's  fig-tree:  he  had 
been  foolish  and  said  sharp  things  to  her  because 
her  goat  strayed  into  his  vineyard.     And  Donna 
Margherita  just  looked  at  the  fig-tree  which  grows 
by  his  gate,  and  said:   "You  have  a  fine  fig-tree 
there;  there  will  be  plenty  of  fruit  this  summer." 
Within  a  fortnight  all  the  crop  of  little  half -ripe  figs 
dropped  off.     There  was  her  landlord  who  threat- 
ened to  turn  her  out  unless  her  quarter's  overdue 


82  UP  AND  DOWN 

rent  was  paid  the  same  evening.  Was  it  paid?  Not 
a  bit  of  it;  but  the  very  same  day  the  landlord's 
kitchen  roof  fell  in.  .  .  .  There  is  no  end  to  such 
evidence,  and  so  when  ten  days  ago  Donna  Mar- 
gherita  asked  Seraphina  if  there  was  not  any  mend- 
ing for  her  to  do,  it  is  no  wonder  (especially  since 
she  is  so  neat  with  her  needle)  that  Seraphina  gave 
her  our  lacerated  linen. 

Such  is  the  history  of  Donna  Margherita,  and 
so  when  this  morning,  as  we  were  breakfasting,  her 
knock  came  at  the  garden  door,  and  she  entered, 
Francis  jumped  up,  and  called  Seraphina  from  the 
kitchen  to  pay  for  the  mending  and  give  Donna 
Margherita  a  glass  of  wine  on  this  hot  morning.  It 
was  cool  and  shady  under  the  pergola  where  we 
were  breakfasting,  and  as  the  old  lady  had  a  fancy 
to  sit  down  for  a  little  after  her  walk,  she  came 
along  and  sat  down  with  us.  And,  vying  with  each 
other  in  courtesies,  Pasqualino  brought  her  a  slice 
of  cake,  and  Seraphina  a  glass  of  wine,  and  then 
hastily  retired  from  the  dangerous  neighbourhood, 
and  looked  out  on  the  interview  with  troubled  faces 
from  an  upper  window. 

To  judge  by  her  dried-apple  cheek,  and  her 
gnarled  and  knotted  hands,  Donna  Margherita 
might  almost  number  the  years  with  which  Alatri 
credits  her,  asserting  that  she  is  a  hundred  sum- 
mers old.  Eighty,  at  any  rate,  she  must  be,  since 
Bhe  has  good  recollection  of  the  events  of  more  than 
seventy  years  ago,  and  as  she  sipped  her  wine  and 


JULY,  1914  83 

clinked  the  soldi  Seraphina  (grossly  overpaying) 
had  given  her,  she  talked  amiably  enough  about  our 
house  and  her  early  memories  of  it. 

"Yes,  it's  a  fine  villa  that  the  Signori  have,"  she 
said;  "but  I  can  remember  it  as  but  a  farm-house 
before  additions  were  made  to  it.  The  farm  build- 
ings used  to  lean  against  it  on  the  north,  where 
later  the  big  room  was  built  by  the  English  artist; 
byre  and  cow-house  were  there,  and  when  I  was  a 
little  girl  a  strange  thing  happened." 

She  mumbled  her  cake  a  little  in  her  toothless 
jaws  and  proceeded: 

"The  farm  in  those  days  belonged  to  Giovanni 
Stofa,  long  since  dead,  and  there  he  lived  alone  with 
his  son,  who  is  long  dead  also.  One  night  after  the 
house  was  shut  up,  and  they  sat  together  before 
going  to  bed,  there  came  a  noise  and  a  clatter  from 
the  cow-house,  very  curious  toi  hear.  Giovanni 
thought  that  one  of  the  cows  had  convulsions  and 
ran  out  of  the  house  and  round  by  the  kitchen, 
and  into  the  shed  where  the  two  cows  were  stabled. 
And  as  he  opened  the  door  he  was  near  knocked 
down,  for  both  of  them  ran  out  with  hoofs  in  the 
air  and  tails  switching.  Then,  not  knowing  what 
should  meet  his  eyes,  he  turned  the  lantern  that  he 
carried  into  the  cow-house,  and  there  standing  in 
the  middle  was  a  strega  (witch).  But  she  looked 
at  him  not  unkindly,  and  said:  ^I  have  come  to 
guard  the  house,  and  from  henceforth  I  shall  always 
guard  it,  walking  up  and  down,  ever  walking  up 
and  down.' 


84  UP  AND  DOWN 

"The  Strega  smiled  at  him  as  she  spoke,  and  his 
knees  ceased  to  tremble,  for  this  was  no  black  visi- 
tant. 

"  Tour  cattle  will  not  be  frightened  again,'  she 
said.    'Look,  even  now  they  come  back.' 

"As  she  spoke,  first  one  and  then  the  other  of 
the  cows  came  into  the  stable  again,  and  walked 
right  up  to  where  the  strega  stood,  blowing  hard 
through  their  nostrils.  And  next  moment  they  lay 
down  close  to  her,  one  on  each  side. 

"  'You  will  often  hear  me  walking  about  here,' 
said  the  strega;  'but  have  no  fear,  for  I  guard  the 
house.' 

"And  with  that  there  came  just  one  puff  of  wind, 
and  Giovanni's  lantern  flickered,  and  lo!  when  the 
flame  was  steady  again  there  was  no  strega  there." 

Donna  Margherita  took  a  sip  of  wine  after  her 
recitation. 

"And  does  she  still  walk  up  and  down  where  the 
cow-house  was?"  I  asked. 

"Surely;  but  fat  ears  cannot  hear  even  the  thun- 
der," quoted  Donna  Margherita.  "And  now,  Sig- 
nori,  I  will  be  walking.  And  thanks  for  the  soldi 
and  the  cake  and  the  wine." 

Francis  got  up  too. 

"You  are  active  still,  Donna  Margherita,"  he 
said. 

Donna  Margherita  stepped  briskly  down  the  path. 

"Eh,  yes,  Signor,"  she  said.    "I  am  old  but  active; 


JULY,  1914  85 

I  can  still  do  such  a  day's  work  as  would  surprise 
you." 

Francis's  eye  and  mine  met;  we  were  behind 
her,  so  that  she  could  not  see  the  exchanged  glance. 
What  was  in  both  our  minds  was  the  affair  of  Pas- 
qualino's  uncle's  fig-tree,  for  that  had  certainly  been 
a  surprising  day's  work.  But  after  she  had  gone, 
he  alluded  again  to  the  steps  I  had  heard  in  the 
studio  in  a  far  more  respectful  manner.  The  fact 
is,  so  I  made  bold  to  tell  him,  that  he  does  not  like 
Donna  Margherita's  unconscious  innuendo  that  he 
has  fat  ears. 

The  hot,  serene  days  pursued  their  relentless 
course  without  our  experiencing  any  of  the  watery 
benefits  we  had  hoped  for  from  the  treat  of  fire- 
works that  we  had  given  to  San  Costanzo,  for  im- 
mediately after  that  improvised  festa  the  falling 
barometer  retraced  its  downward  steps,  and  the 
needle  stood,  steady  as  if  it  had  been  painted  there, 
on  the  "V"  of  "Very  Dry."  Miss  Machonochie's  cis- 
tern, so  she  informed  us,  had  barely  a  foot  of  water 
in  it,  and  she  came  up  to  ask  if  she  might  borrow  a 
few  pailfuls  from  ours  of  a  morning.  ''Borrow"  was 
good,  since  naturally  she  could  not  pay  it  back  till 
the  rain  came  and  replenished  her  store,  and  the 
moment  the  rain  came  it  would  be  a  foolish  thing 
to  go  carrying  pailfuls  of  water  from  one  house  to 
another  when  all  were  plentifully  supplied.  But 
she  made  a  great  point  of  putting  down  exactly 
how  many  pailfuls  she  borrowed,  and  also  made  a 
great  point  of  coming  to  thank  Francis  every  other 


86  UP  AND  DOWN 

afternoon  about  tea-time  for  his  kindness.  She  did 
not  care  about  thanking  me,  though  I  had  been 
just  as  kind  as  Francis,  and  eventually,  owing  to 
the  awful  frequency  of  these  visits,  we  posted  Pas- 
qualino  on  the  balcony  overlooking  the  path  to  give 
warning  (like  Brangaene  from  her  tower)  of  Miss 
Machonochie^s  fell  approach,  while  we  had  tea,  so 
that  we  could  effect  an  exit  through  the  kitchen 
door,  and  live,  like  outlaws,  in  the  heather,  till  Miss 
Machonochie  had  left  her  gratitude  behind  her.  It 
was  not  sufficient  to  instruct  Pasqualino  to  say  we 
were  out,  for  then  Miss  Machonochie  would  sit  and 
rest  in  the  garden  for  a  little,  or  come  up  to  the 
studio  to  write  a  letter  of  thanks  (always  to  Fran- 
cis). But  with  Pasquahno  on  the  balcony,  we  can 
sit  in  peace  over  tea,  till  with  a  broad  grin  that 
occasionally  explodes  into  laughter,  he  comes  in  to 
say  that  the  Scotch  Signorina's  sunshade  is  a-bob- 
bing  up  the  path.  Then  we  hastily  scald  ourselves 
with  tea  and  go  for  a  walk,  for  no  longer  in  this 
dearth  of  water  can  the  garden  be  refreshed,  but 
must  needs  lies  waterless  till  the  rain  revisits  us. 

To-day  we  made  an  expedition  up  Monte  Gen- 
naro,  the  great  crag  that  rises  sheer  from  the  south 
side  of  the  island  in  two  thousand  feet  of  unscal- 
able cliff.  From  the  west  the  ascent  is  a  mild, 
upward  path  over  a  stony  hill-side,  and  the  more 
delectable  way  is  on  its  east  side,  where  a  very 
steep  ascent  burrows  among  thick  growing  scrub  of 
laburnum  and  arbutus  till  it  reaches  the  toppling 
precipices  that  frown  about  it.     There,  squeezing 


JULY,  1914  87 

through  interstices  and  fissures,  it  conducts  to  a 
huge  grassy  upland,  unsuspected  from  below,  that 
sweeps  upward  to  the  summit.  A  pine-tree  or  two 
stand  sentinel  here,  but  there  is  little  anchorage  of 
soil  for  trees,  and  for  the  most  part  the  hill-side 
is  clothed  in  long  jungle  grasses  and  spaces  of  sunny- 
broom,  the  scent  of  which  hangs  sweet  and  heavy  in 
the  windless  air.  Here  the  dews  are  thicker,  and 
the  heat  less  intense,  and  though  the  rain  has  been 
so  long  withheld,  the  hill-side  is  still  green  and 
un withered,  and  deep  among  the  grasses  we  saw 
abundance  of  the  great  orange-coloured  lilies  that 
we  had  come  to  gather.  But  that  task  was  for  the 
downward  journey,  and  first  we  ascended  to  the 
peak  itself.  As  we  climbed,  the  island  dwindled 
below  us,  and  at  last  at  the  summit  it  had  shrunk 
to  a  pin's-head  in  the  girdle  of  the  dim  sea,  domed 
with  huge  blue. 

West,  south  and  north,  straight  to  the  high  hori- 
zon, stretched  the  untarnished  and  liquid  plain; 
here  and  there,  like  some  minute  fly  walking  on  a 
vast  sheet  of  sapphire  glass,  moved  an  ocean-going 
steamer.  Eastwards  there  floated,  distant  and 
dreamlike  but  curiously  distinct,  the  shores  and 
peaks  on  the  mainland,  and  from  it,  on  this  side  and 
that,  there  swam  the  rocks  of  the  Siren  isles,  as  if 
trying  to  join  Alatri,  the  boldest  swimmer  of  them 
all.  The  remoteness  and  tranquillity  of  mountain 
tops  lay  round  us,  and  curious  it  was  to  think  that 
down  there,  where  Naples  sparkled  along  the  coast, 
there  moved  a  crowd  of  insatiable  ant-like  folk. 


88  UP  AND  DOWN 

busy  on  infinitesimal  things  that  absorbed  and 
vexed  and  delighted  them.  Naples  itself  was  so 
little;  it  was  as  if,  in  this  great  emptiness  of  sea 
and  sky,  some  minute  insect  was  seen,  and  one 
was  told  that  that  minute  insect  swarmed  with 
other  minute  forms  of  life.  To  look  at  it  was  to 
look  at  a  piece  of  coral,  and  remember  that  mil- 
lions of  animalculse  built  up  the  structure  that  was 
but  a  bead  in  a  necklace.  And  here,  lying  at  ease 
on  the  grass,  were  just  two  more  of  the  coral-insects 
that  mattered  so  much  to  themselves  and  to  each 
other.  .  .  . 

We  slewed  round  again  seawards,  and  looked  over 
the  precipitous  southern  cliffs.  A  little  draught  of 
wind  blew  up  them,  making  the  grasses  at  the  rim 
shake  and  tremble.  From  below  a  hawk  swooped 
upwards  over  the  cliff  edge,  saw  us,  and  fell  away 
again  with  a  rustle  of  reversed  feathers  into  the  air. 
Round  the  base  of  the  cliffs  the  sapphire  of  the 
sea  was  trimmed  with  brilliant  bottle-green,  and 
not  the  faintest  line  of  foam  showed  where  it  met 
the  land.  To  the  left  on  the  island,  the  town  of 
Alatri,  with  all  its  house-roofs  and  spires,  looked 
as  flat  as  on  a  map,  and  on  the  hill-side  above  it 
we  could  just  make  out  the  stone-pine  cutting  the 
white  fagade  of  the  Villa  Tiberiana.  For  a  moment 
that  anchored  me  to  earth;  but  slipping  my  cable 
again,  I  spread  myself  abroad  in  the  openness  and 
the  emptiness.  Was  I  part  of  it,  or  it  part  of  me? 
That  did  not  matter  much;  we  were  certainly  both 
part  of  something  else,  something  of  tumultuous 


JULY,  1914  89 

energy  that  whirled  the  stars  on  their  courses,  and 
was  yet  the  peace  that  passed  understanding.  .  .  . 

The  days  had  slipped  away.  Before  the  orange 
lilies,  which  we  gathered  that  afternoon  on  Monte 
Gennaro,  were  withered,  there  remained  to  me  but 
a  week  more  for  the  present  of  island  life,  which 
flowed  on  hour  by  hour  in  the  normal  employments 
that  made  up  the  day.  But  all  the  small  events,  the 
sights  and  sounds,  had  to  me  then,  as  they  have 
now,  a  curious  distinctness,  as  when  before  a  storm 
outlines  of  hills  and  houses  are  sharp  and  defined, 
and  the  details  of  the  landscape  are  etched  vividly 
in  the  metallic  tenseness  of  the  preceding  calm. 
But,  as  far  as  I  knew,  there  were  in  life  generally 
no  threats  of  approaching  storm,  no  clouds  that 
broke  the  serenity  of  the  sky.  Privately,  my  friend- 
ships and  affairs  were  prosperous,  and  though  by 
the  papers  it  appeared  that  politicians  were  turn- 
ing anxious  eyes  to  Ireland,  where  ferment  was 
brewing  over  Home  Rule,  I  supposed,  in  the  happy- 
go-lucky  way  in  which  the  average  English  citizen 
goes  whistling  along,  that  those  whose  business  it 
was  to  attend  to  such  things  would  see  to  it.  Person- 
ally I  intended  to  go  back  to  England  for  a  couple  of 
months,  and  then  return  here  for  the  warm  golden 
autumn  that  often  lasts  into  the  early  days  of  De- 
cember. Established  now,  in  this  joint  house, 
''piccolo  nido  in  vasto  mar/'  I  meant  to  slide  back 
often  and  for  prolonged  periods  down  the  golden 
cord  that  has  always  bound  me  to  Italy.     But 


90  UP  AND  DOWN 

though  these  days  were  so  soon  to  be  renewed,  I 
found  myself  clinging  to  each  minute  as  it  passed 
with  a  sense  that  they  were  numbered;  that  the 
sands  were  running  out,  and  that  close  behind  the 
serenity  of  the  heavens  there  lurked  the  flare  of 
some  prodigious  judgment.  Yet,  day  by  day  there 
was  nothing  to  warrant  those  ominous  presages.  I 
swam  to  my  cache,  smoked  my  cigarette,  basked  on 
the  beach,  and  continued  weaving  the  adventures 
of  Mrs.  Hancock.  The  same  sense  of  instability,  I 
found,  beset  Francis  also,  and  this  in  spite  of  the 
fact  that  the  beleaguerings  of  Miss  Machonochie 
were  suddenly  and  celestially  put  a  stop  to. 

We  had  strolled  down  to  the  Piazza  one  evening 
after  dinner,  and  mingled  with  the  crowd  that  stood 
watching  a  great  display  of  thunderstorm  that  was 
bursting  over  the  mainland  twenty  miles  away. 
Above  us  here  was  a  perfectly  clear  sky,  in  which 
the  full  moon  rode  high,  and  by  its  light  we  could 
see  that  the  whole  of  the  coast  was  smothered  in 
cloud,  out  of  which  broke  ten  times  to  the  minute 
flashes  of  lightning,  while  the  low,  remote  roar  of 
the  thunder,  faintly  echoed  on  the  cliffs  of  Monte 
Gennaro,  boomed  without  ceasing.  Then  we  saw 
that  long  streamers  of  cloud  were  shooting  out  of 
that  banked  rampart  towards  us,  and  we  had  barely 
got  back  to  the  Villa  again  before  the  moon  and 
the  stars  were  obscured,  and  hot  single  drops  of 
rain,  large  as  a  five-franc  piece,  steamed  and  van- 
ished on  the  warm  cement  of  the  terrace. 

All  night  long  the  rain  fell  in  sheets,  and  through 


JULY,  1914  91 

the  slats  of  the  shutters  I  saw  the  incessant  flashes, 
while  the  thunder  roared  and  rattled  overhead,  and 
the  pipe  from  the  house-roof,  that  feeds  our  de- 
pleted cistern,  gurgled  and  gulped  and  swallowed 
the  rain  it  was  thirsting  for.  Hour  after  hour  the 
downpour  continued,  and  when  morning  broke  the 
garden-paths  were  riddled  with  water-courses,  and 
the  gathered  waters  gleamed  in  the  cisterns,  and 
Miss  Machonochie  need  ''borrow"  no  more,  nor 
come  up  about  tea-time  to  thank  Francis  for  his  lar- 
gesse, and  hound  us  from  our  tea  to  seek  refuge  on 
arid  hill-sides.  Pasqualino  remarked  that  San  Cos- 
tanzo  had  been  a  long  time  thanking  us  for  the  fire- 
works; did  I  suppose  that And  as  Pasqualino's 

remarks  about  the  hierarchy  of  Heaven  are  some- 
time almost  embarrassingly  child-like  in  their  rea- 
sonableness, I  skilfully  changed  the  subject  by  tell- 
ing him  to  measure  the  water  in  the  cistern. 

But  though  Francis  need  no  longer  be  afraid  of 
Miss  Machonochie,  "the  arrow  the  flieth  by  day" 
so  constantly  transfixing  him,  and  though  after  pro- 
longed thought  he  confessed  that  there  was  nothing 
else  in  life  which  bothered  him,  except  that  in  two 
years'  time  Pasqualino  would  have  to  go  for  his 
military  service,  and  he  himself  would  have  to  find 
another  servant  (which  really  seemed  a  trial,  the 
fieriness  of  which  need  not  be  allowed  to  scorch  so 
soon),  he  shares  my  sense  of  instability  and  uneasi- 
ness, and,  like  me,  cannot  in  any  way  account  for 
it.  To  encourage  him  and  myself  on  the  morning 
of  my  departure  as  we  had  our  last  bathe,  I  was 


92  UP  AND  DOWN 

noble  enough  to  let  him  into  the  secret  of  my  cache 
of  cigarettes  in  the  seaweed-hung  recess  in  the  rock, 
and  together  we  lit  the  farewell  incense  to  the 
Palazzo  a  mare,  sitting  on  the  rock. 

'^And  there  are  two  left,"  said  I,  ^'which  we  will 
smoke  together  here  the  first  day  that  I  come  back." 

"Is  that  a  promise?"  he  said. 

"Surely." 

"And  when  will  you  keep  it?" 

"About  the  middle  of  September." 

"And  if  you  don't?"  he  asked. 

"Well,  it  will  only  mean  that  I  have  been  run  over 
by  a  motor-car,  or  got  cancer,  or  something  of  the 
sort,  or  that  you  have.  If  we  are  still  in  control 
of  ourselves  we'll  do  it.  I  wonder  if  those  two 
cigarettes  will  be  mouldy  or  pickled  with  brine  by 
that  time?" 

"Kippered  or  mouldy  or  pickled,  I  will  smoke  one 
of  them  on  the  day  you  return,"  said  he. 

"And  I  the  other.  But  I  hope  it  won't  be  mouldy. 
Or  I  shall  be  sick,"  said  I. 

"Likely.  Lord,  what  a  pleasant  thing  it  is  to  sit 
on  a  rock  aU  wet  in  the  blaze  of  the  sun !  I  wonder 
if  it's  all  too  pleasant — whether  Nemesis  has  her 
wooden  eye  on  me?  Oh,  Mother  Nemesis,  beautiful, 
kind  Lady  Nemesis,  remove  your  wooden  eye  from 
me!  Your  wooden  eye  offends  me;  pluck  it  out 
and  cast  it  from  thee!  I  don't  do  much  harm;  I 
sit  in  the  sea  and  eat  my  food,  and  have  a  tremen- 
dous quantity  of  great  ideas,  none  of  which  ever 
come  to  anything." 


JULY,  1914  93 

"You  might  be  called  lazy,  you  know,"  said  I. 
"Lady  Nemesis  would  explain  that  to  you  before 
she  beat  you." 

"I  might  be  called  whatever  you  choose  to  call 
me,"  said  he,  "but  it  need  not  be  applicable.  I'm 
not  lazy;  my  brain  is  an  exceedingly  busy  one, 
though  it  doesn't  devote  itself  to  the  orthodox  pur- 
suits of  losing  money  in  the  city  and  labelling  your- 
self a  financier,  or  playing  bridge  in  a  country  town 
and  labelling  yourself  a  soldier,  or  writing  a  lot  of 
weary  stories  and  calling  yourself  an  author." 

"I  never  did,"  said  I  hastily. 

"Well,  you  permit  other  people  to  do  so,  if  you 
will  put  on  the  cap  like  that.  Don't  rag,  or  I  shall 
push  you  into  the  sea.  I  was  saying  that  I  was  not 
lazy,  because  I  think.  Most  people  imagine  that 
energy  must  be  spent  in  action,  and  they  will  tell 
you  quite  erroneously  (as  you  did  just  now)  that  if 
you  don't  sit  in  an  office,  or  something  of  that  kind, 
or  do  something,  that  you  are  indolent.  The  reason 
is  that  most  people  can't  think,  and  so  when  they 
cease  from  acting  they  are  unemployed.  But  peo- 
ple who  can  think  are  never  so  busy  as  when  they 
cease  from  action.  Most  people  are  beavers;  they 
build  a  dam,  in  which  they  shut  up  their  souls. 
And  they  call  it  civilization.  The  world  as  pictured 
by  such  Progressionists  will  be  an  awful  place. 
There  will  be  wonderful  drainage,  and  milk  for  chil- 
dren, and  capsuled  food,  and  inoculation  against  all 
diseases,  and  plenty  of  peace  and  comfort  for  every- 
body, and  a  chromolithograph  of  Mr.  H.  G.  Wells  on 


94  UP  AND  DOWN 

every  wall.  Then  the  millennium  will  come,  the 
great  vegetable  millennium,  in  which  the  whole 
human  race  will  stretch  from  world's  end  to  world's 
end  like  rows  of  cabbages,  each  in  his  own  place  in 
straight  lines,  and  all  seated  on  the  ground,  as  the 
hymn  says.  Why,  the  whole  glory  of  the  human 
race  is  that  we're  not  content,  not  happy,  missing 
something  always,  yearning  for  something  that 
eludes  us  and  glorifies  our  search.  .  .  ." 

He  paused  a  moment,  and  drew  the  thermometer 
out  of  the  water. 

'It's  an  affair  of  conscience,"  he  said ;  ''I  do  what 
my  conscience  tells  me  is  of  most  importance." 

I  felt  rather  sore  at  the  fact  that  this  afternoon 
I  had  to  start  on  my  northern  career  across  Europe 
in  a  dusty  train,  with  the  knowledge  that  Francis 
would  be  here,  still  cool  and  clean,  in  the  sea,  while 
the  smuts  poured  in  on  to  the  baked  red  velvet  of 
my  carriage,  and  that  here  he  would  remain,  while  I, 
dutiful  and  busy,  saw  the  sooty  skies  of  the  town  on 
the  Thames,  which  seemed  a  most  deplorable  place 
of  residence.  Some  of  this  soreness  oozed  into  my 
words. 

"Your  conscience  is  very  kind  to  you,"  I  said.  "It 
tells  you  that  it  is  of  the  highest  importance  that  you 
should  live  in  this  adorable  island  and  spend  your 
day  exactly  as  you  choose." 

"But  if  it  said  I  should  go  back  to  England,  and 
sweep  a  crossing  in — what's  the  name  of  that  foul 
street  with  a  paddock  on  one  side  of  it? — Oh,  yes, 


JULY,  1914  95 

Piccadilly — sweep  a  crossing  in  Piccadilly,  I  should 
certainly  go!"  said  he. 

Unfortunately  for  purposes  of  argument,  I  knew 
that  this  was  true. 

"I  know  you  would,"  I  said,  "but  on  the  day  of 
departure  you  must  excuse  my  being  jealous  of  such 
a  well-ordered  conscience.  Oh,  Francis,  how  bleak 
the  white  cliffs  of  our  beloved  England  will  look! 
Sometimes  I  really  wish  Heaven  hadn't  commanded, 
and  that  Britain  had  remained  at  the  bottom  of  the 
azure  main  instead  of  arising  from  out  of  it.  How  I 
shall  hate  the  solemn,  self-sufficient  faces  of  the 
English.  English  faces  always  look  as  if  they  knew 
they  were  right,  and  they  generally  are,  which  makes 
it  worse.  A  quantity  of  them  together  are  so  dread- 
ful, large  and  stupid  and  proper  and  rich  and  pom- 
pous, like  rows  of  well-cooked  hams.  Italian  faces 
are  far  nicer;  they're  a  bed  of  pansies,  all  enjoying 
the  sun  and  nodding  to  each  other.  I  don't  want 
to  go  to  England!  Oh,  not  to  be  in  England  now 
that  July's  here!  I  wish  you  would  come,  too. 
Take  a  holiday  from  being  good,  and  doing  what 
your  conscience  tells  you,  and  spending  your  days 
exactly  as  you  like.  Come  and  eat  beef  and  beer, 
and  feel  the  jolly  north-east  wind  and  the  rain  and 
the  mud  and  the  fogs,  and  all  those  wonderful  in- 
fluences that  make  us  English  what  we  are ! " 

Francis  laughed. 

"It  all  sounds  very  tempting,  very  tempting  in- 
deed," he  said.  "But  I  shall  resist.  The  fact  is  I 
believe  I've  ceased  to  be  English.    It's  very  shock- 


96  UP  AND  DOWN 

ing,  for  I  suppose  a  lack  of  patriotism  is  one  of  the 
most  serious  lacks  you  can  have.  But  I've  got  it. 
Even  your  sketch  of  England  doesn't  arouse  any 
thrill  in  me.  Imagine  if  war  was  possible  between 
England  and  Italy.  Where  would  my  sympathies 
really  be?     I  know  quite  well,  but  I  shan't  tell  you." 

The  daily  tourist  steamer,  the  same  that  in  a  few 
hours'  time  would  take  me  away,  came  churning 
round  the  point,  going  to  the  Marina,  where  it  would 
lie  at  anchor  till  four  o'clock.  It  was  obviously 
crammed  with  passengers — Germans,  probably,  for 
the  most  part,  and  the  strains  of  the  "Watch  by  the 
Rhine"  played  by  the  ship's  band  (cornet,  violin 
and  bombardon)  came  fatly  across  the  water  to  u^. 
Francis  got  up. 

"Sorry,  but  it's  time  to  swim  back  and  dress,"  he 
said.     "There's  the  steamer." 

"There's  the  cart  for  Tyburn,"  said  I  mournfully. 

So  we  put  the  tin  box  with  the  thermometer  and 
the  two  cigarettes  to  be  smoked  on  the  rock  one  day 
in  the  middle  of  September,  back  in  its  curtained 
cave,  and  swam  to  land,  lingering  and  lying  on  the 
sea  and  loath  to  go.  Then  we  dressed  and  walked 
through  the  dappled  shade  of  the  olive  trees  on  the 
cobbled  paths  between  the  vineyards  to  where  on 
the  dusty  road  our  carriage  waited  for  us,  and  so  up 
to  the  Villa. 

I  had  but  little  to  do  in  the  way  of  packing,  for 
with  this  house  permanently  ours  and  the  certainty 
(in  spite  of  qualms)  of  coming  back  in  a  couple  of 
months'  time,  I  was  making  deposit  of  clothes  here, 


JULY,  1914  97 

and  a  few  hours  later  I  stood  on  the  deck  of  the 
crowded  steamer  and  saw  the  pier,  with  Francis 
standing  white  and  tall  on  the  end  of  it,  diminish 
and  diminish.  The  width  of  water  between  me  and 
the  enchanted  island  increased,  and  the  foam  of  our 
wash  grew  longer,  like  a  white  riband  endlessly  laid 
out  on  a  table  of  sapphire  blue.  All  round  me  were 
crowds  of  German  tourists,  gutturally  exclaiming  on 
the  beauty  of  the  island  and  the  excellence  of  the 
beer.  And  soon  the  haze  of  hot  summer  weather 
began  to  weave  its  veil  between  us  and  Alatri:  it 
grew  dim  and  unsubstantial;  the  solidity  of  its  capes 
and  cliffs  melted  and  lost  its  clarity  of  outline  till  it 
lay  dream-like  and  vague,  a  harp-shaped  shell  of 
grey  floating  on  the  horizon  to  the  west.  Already, 
before  we  got  to  Naples,  it  seemed  years  ago  that  I 
sat  on  its  beaches  and  swam  in  its  seas  with  a  friend 
called  Francis. 


AUGUST,  1914 

Out  of  the  serene  stillness,  and  with  the  swiftness  of 
the  hurricane,  the  storm  came  up.  It  was  in  June 
that  there  appeared  the  little  cloud,  no  bigger  than 
a  man's  hand,  when  the  heir  to  the  Austrian  throne 
was  murdered  at  Serajevo.  There  it  hung  on  the 
horizon,  and  none  heeded,  though  in  the  womb  of  it 
lurked  the  seed  of  the  most  terrific  tempest  of  blood 
and  fire  that  the  world  has  ever  known.  Suddenly 
in  the  last  week  of  July  that  seed  fructified,  shooting 
out  monstrous  tendrils  to  East  and  West.  A  Note 
was  sent  from  Vienna  to  Servia  making  demands, 
and  insisting  on  terms  that  no  State  could  possibly 
entertain,  if  it  was  henceforth  to  consider  itself  a 
free  country.  Servia  appealed  to  Russia  for  protec- 
tion, and  Russia  remonstrated  with  those  who  had 
framed  or  (more  accurately)  those  who  had  sent 
that  Note.  The  remonstrance  fell  on  ears  that  had 
determined  not  to  hear,  and  the  throttling  pressure 
of  the  inflexible  hands  was  not  abated.  London  and 
Paris  appealed  for  a  conference,  for  arbitration  that 
might  find  a  peaceful  solution,  for  already  all  Europe 
saw  that  here  was  a  firebrand  that  might  set  the 
world  aflame.  And  then  we  began  to  see  who  it  was 
that  had  caused  it  to  be  lit  and  flung,  and  who  it  was 
that  stood  over  it  now,  forbidding  any  to  quench  it. 


AUGUST,  1914  99 

Out  of  the  gathering  darkness  there  arose,  like 
some  overtopping  genius,  the  figure  of  Germany, 
with  face  inexorable  and  flint-like,  ready  at  last  for 
Der  Tag,  for  the  dawning  of  which  during  the  last 
forty  years  she  had  been  making  ready,  with  patient, 
unremitting  toil,  and  hell  in  her  heart.  She  was 
clad  in  the  shining  armour  well  known  in  the  flam- 
boyant utterances  of  her  megalomaniac  Nero,  and  her 
hand  grasped  the  sword  that  she  had  already  half- 
drawn  from  its  scabbard.  She  but  waited,  as  a 
watcher  through  the  night  waits  for  the  mom  that  is 
imminent,  for  the  event  that  her  schemes  had 
already  made  inevitable,  and  on  the  first  sign  of  the 
mobilization  of  the  Russian  armies,  demanded  that 
that  mobilization  should  cease.  Long  years  she  had 
waited,  weaving  her  dream  of  world-wide  conquest; 
now  she  was  ready,  and  her  edict  went  forth  for  the 
dawning  of  The  Day,  and,  like  Satan  creating  the 
world  afresh,  she  thundered  out:  "Let  there  be 
night."  Then  she  shut  down  her  visor  and  un- 
sheathed her  sword. 

She  had  chosen  her  moment  well,  and,  ready  for 
the  hazard  that  should  make  her  mistress  of  the 
world,  or  cause  her  to  cease  from  among  the  nations, 
she  paid  no  heed  to  Russia's  invitation  to  a  friendly 
conference.  She  wished  to  confer  with  none,  and 
she  would  be  friendly  with  none  whom  she  had  not 
first  battered  into  submission,  and  ground  into  serf- 
dom with  her  iron  heel.  On  both  her  frontiers  she 
was  prepared;  on  the  East  her  mobilization  would 
be  complete  long  before  the  Russian  troops  could  be 


100  UP  AND  DOWN 

brought  up,  and  gathering  certain  of  her  legions  on 
that  front,  she  pulled  France  into  the  conflict.  For 
on  the  Western  front  she  was  ready,  too;  on  the 
word  she  could  discharge  her  troops  in  one  bull-like 
rush  through  Belgium,  and,  holding  the  shattered 
and  dispersed  armies  of  France  in  check,  turn  to 
Russia  again.  Given  that  she  had  but  those  two 
foes  to  deal  with,  it  seemed  to  her  that  in  a  few 
weeks  she  must  be  mistress  of  Europe,  and  prepared 
at  high  noon  of  Der  Tag  to  attack  the  only  country 
that  really  stood  between  her  and  world-wide 
dominion.  She  was  not  seeking  a  quarrel  with  Eng- 
land just  yet,  and  she  had  strong  hopes  that,  dis- 
tracted by  the  imminence  of  civil  war  in  Ireland, 
we  should  be  unable  to  come  to  the  help  of  our 
Allies  until  our  Allies  were  past  all  help.  Here  she 
was  staking  on  an  uncertainty,  for  though  she  had 
copious  information  from  her  army  of  spies,  who  in 
embassy  and  consulate  and  city  office  had  eaten  the 
bread  of  England,  and  grasped  every  day  the  hands 
of  English  citizens,  it  could  not  be  regarded  as  an 
absolute  certainty  that  England  would  stand  aside. 
But  she  had  strong  reasons  to  hope  that  she  would. 
It  was  on  the  first  day  of  this  month  that  Ger- 
many shut  her  visor  down  and  declared  war  on  Rus- 
sia. Automatically,  this  would  spread  the  flanae  of 
war  over  France,  and  next  day  it  was  known  that 
Germany  had  asked  leave  to  march  her  armies 
through  Belgium,  making  it  quite  clear  that  what- 
ever answer  was  given  her,  she  would  not  hesitate 
to  do  it.    Belgium  refused  permission,  and  appealed 


AUGUST,  1914  101 

to  England.  On  Monday,  August  3rd,  Germany 
was  at  war  with  France,  and  began  to  move  her 
armies  up  to  and  across  the  Belgian  frontier,  violating 
the  territory  she  had  sworn  to  respect,  and  strewing 
the  fragments  of  her  tom-up  honour  behind  her. 
Necessity,  she  averred,  knew  no  law,  and  since  it 
was  vital  for  the  success  of  her  dream  of  world- 
conquest  that  her  battalions  should  pass  through 
Belgium,  every  other  consideration  ceased  to  exist 
for  her.  National  honour,  the  claim,  the  certificate 
of  a  country's  right  to  be  reckoned  among  the  civiliz- 
ing powers  of  the  world,  must  be  sacrificed.  She 
burned  in  the  flame  of  the  war  she  had  kindled  the 
patent  of  her  rights  to  rank  among  civilized  states. 

It  was  exactly  this,  which  meant  nothing  to  her, 
that  meant  everything  to  us,  and  it  upset  the  calcu- 
lation on  which  Germany  had  based  her  action, 
namely,  that  England  was  too  much  distracted  by 
internal  conflict  to  interfere.  There  was  a  large 
party,  represented  in  the  Government,  which  held 
that  the  quarrel  of  Germany  with  France  and  Rus- 
sia was  none  of  our  business,  and  that  we  were 
within  our  rights  to  stand  aside.  All  that  Monday 
the  country  waited  to  know  what  the  decision  of  the 
Cabinet  and  of  the  House  would  be. 

The  suspense  of  those  hours  can  never  be  pictured. 
It  belongs  to  the  nightmare  side  of  life,  where  the 
very  essence  of  the  threatening  horror  lies  in  the  fact 
that  it  is  indefinite.  But  this  I  know,  that  to  thou- 
sands of  others,  even  to  myself,  England,  from  being 
a  vague  idea  in  the  background  which  we  took  for 


102  UP  AND  DOWN 

granted  and  did  not  trouble  about,  leaped  into  being 
as  a  mother,  or  a  beloved  personage,  of  whose  flesh 
and  bone  we  were,  out  of  whose  womb  we  had 
sprung.  All  my  life,  I  am  willing  to  confess  I  had 
not  given  her  a  thought,  I  had  not  even  consciously 
conceived  of  her  as  a  reality ;  she  had  been  to  me  but 
like  the  heroine  of  some  unreal  sentimental  tale,  a 
thing  to  blush  at  if  she  was  publicly  spoken  of.  But 
on  those  days  she,  who  had  hitherto  meant  nothing 
to  me,  sprang  to  life,  deep-bosomed,  with  patient 
hands  and  tender  eyes,  in  which  was  no  shadow  of 
reproach  for  all  those  years  of  careless  contempt. 
And  by  the  curious  irony  of  things,  on  the  day  that 
she  was  revealed  to  me,  she  stood  in  a  place,  from 
which,  if  she  chose,  she  could  withdraw  herself  into 
isolation,  and  from  which,  if  she  chose,  she  could 
step  forth  to  meet  the  deadliest  peril  that  had  ever 
assailed  her.  But  even  in  the  moment  of  the  first 
knowledge  and  love  of  her  that  had  ever  entered  my 
soul,  I  prayed  in  a  silent  agony  of  anxiety  that  she 
should  leave  her  sheltered  isle  for  the  unimaginable 
danger  of  the  tempest  that  raged  beyond  the  sea  that 
was  hers.  For,  indeed,  if  she  did  not,  she  was  but  a 
phantom  of  .the  pit;  no  mother  of  mine,  but  some 
unspeakable  puppet,  a  thing  to  be  hidden  away  in 
her  shame  and  nakedness. 

It  was  known  that  night  that  England  would  not 
tolerate  the  violation  of  Belgian  soil,  and  had  sent 
an  ultimatum  to  Germany  which  would,  expire  in 
twenty-four  hours.  And  from  the  whole  country 
there  went  up  one  intense  sigh  of  relief  that  we  were 


AUGUST,  1914  103 

resolved  to  embark  on  what  must  be  the  most  prodig- 
ious war  that  the  world  had  ever  seen.  ''Give  War 
in  our  time,  O  Lord!"  was  the  prayer  of  all  who  most 
truly  knew  that  the  only  peace  possible  to  us  was  a 
peace  which  would  stamp  the  name  of  England  with 
indelible  infamy.  And  God  heard  their  prayer,  and 
on  Wednesday  we  woke  to  a  world  where  all  was 
changed.  The  light-hearted,  luxurious,  unreflective 
days  were  gone,  never  probably  in  our  time  to  re- 
turn. Already  the  tempest  of  fire  and  blood  was 
loosened  in  Europe;  a  line  was  drawn  across  the 
lives  of  everyone,  and  for  the  future  there  were  but 
two  periods  in  one's  consciousness,  the  time  before 
the  war,. and  war-time. 

It  was  during  this  week  that  I  had  a  long  letter 
from  Francis  written  before  the  English  ultimatum 
was  known,  but  delayed  in  posts  that  were  already 
scrutinized  and  censored.  Though  I  had  no  friend 
in  the  world  so  intimate  as  he,  his  letter  revealed 
him  now  as  a  person  strangely  remote,  speaking  an 
unintelligible  language.  So  little  a  while  a^o  I 
had  spoken  the  same  tongue  as  he;  now  all  he  said 
seemed  to  be  gibberish,  though  his  sentiments  were 
just  such  as  I  might  have  expressed  myself,  if,  since 
then,  Saturday,  Sunday,  Monday  and  Tuesday  had 
not  been  among  the  days  of  my  life. 

"Things  look  black,"  he  said,  "and  the  papers,  for 
once  reflecting  the  mind  of  the  people,  are  asking 
what  Italy  will  do,  if  Germany  and  Austria  go  to 
war  with  France  and  Russia.  I  believe  (and,  re- 
member, I  speak  entirely  from  the  Italian  point  of 


104  UP  AND  DOWN 

view,  for  verily  I  have  long  ceased  to  be  English) 
that  it  is  frankly  impossible  that  we  should  range 
ourselves  side  by  side  with  Austria,  our  hereditary 
foe.  It  seems  one  of  the  things  that  can't  happen; 
no  ministry  could  remain  in  office  that  proposed 
that.  And  yet  we  are  the  ally  of  Austria  and  Ger- 
many, unless  it  is  true,  as  the  Corner e  tells  us,  that 
the  terms  of  our  alliance  only  bind  us  to  them  in 
the  event  of  aggression  on  the  part  of  two  nations 
of  the  Triple  Entente.  Be  that  as  it  may,  I  don't 
believe  we  can  come  in  with  Austria. 

"I  am  extremely  glad  of  it,  for  I  am  one  of  those 
queer  creatures  who  do  not  believe  that  a  quarrel 
between  two  countries  can  be  justly  settled  by  mak- 
ing a  quantity  of  harmless  young  men  on  both  sides 
shoot  each  other.  I  don't  see  that  such  a  method  of 
settling  a  dispute  proves  anything  beyond  showing 
which  side  has  the  better  rifles,  and  has  been  better 
trained,  unless  you  deliberately  adopt  the  rule  of 
life  that  'Might  is  Right.'  If  you  do  let  us  be  con- 
sistent, and  I  will  waylay  Caterina  as  she  goes  home 
with  the  money  Seraphina  has  given  her  for  the 
washing,  rob,  and,  if  necessary,  murder  her.  If  she 
proves  to  be  stronger  than  me,  she  will  scratch  my 
face  and  bring  her  money  safely  home.  And,  her 
father  will  try  to  shoot  me  next  day,  and  I  will  try 
to  shoot  him.  That's  the  logical  outcome  of  Might 
is  Right. 

"I  am  glad,  too,  of  this,  that  I  myself  am  a  dena- 
tionalized individual,  and  if  I  have  a  motherland 
at  all,  it  is  this  beloved  stepmother-land,  who  for 


AUGUST,  1914  105 

so  long  has  treated  me  as  one  of  her  cRildren.  Dam- 
nable as  I  think  war  is,  I  think  I  could  fight  for  her, 
if  anyone  slapped  her  beautiful  face.  And  yet  how 
could  I  fight  against  the  country  to  whom  we  owe 
not  only  so  much  of  the  art  and  science,  but  of 
Thought  itself?  Germany  taught  mankind  how  to 
think. 

''Let  me  know  how  things  go  in  England.  It 
looks  as  if  you  could  keep  out  of  this  hurly-burly. 
So  if  Italy  does  too,  I  hope  to  see  you  here  again  in 
September.  Seraphina  suggests  that  Italy  should 
make  pretence  of  being  friends  with  the  'bestia 
jedente,'  by  which  she  means  the  Austrians,  and 
that  when  they  are  fighting  the  Russians,  she  should 
run  swiftly  from  them  and  seize  the  Trentino  again. 
There  seems  much  good  sense  in  this,  for  'the  Tren- 
tino is  ours,  and  it  is  right  and  proper  to  take  what 
belongs  to  us.' 

"England  must  be  peculiarly  beastly  with  all  these 
disturbances  going  on.  Why  don't  you  pack  up 
your  tooth-brush  and  your  comb  and  come  back 
again  at  once?  The  Palazzo  a  mare  is  better  than 
Piccadilly,  and  the  purple  figs  are  ripe,  and  the 
cones  are  dropping  from  the  stone-pine,  and  never 
were  there  such  fat  kernels  for  Seraphina  to  fry  in 
oil.  Perhaps  if  you  come  back  the  strega  would 
continue  walking;  she  seems  to  have  had  no  exercise 
since  you  were  here.  Your  room  is  empty,  and  the 
door  makes  sorrowful  faces  at  me  as  I  go  along  the 
passage.  It  frowns  at  me,  and  says  it  isn't  I  it 
wants.    And  I  share  the  silent  verdict  of  your  door. 


106  UP  AND  DOWN 

"I  don't  see  what  quarrel  England  can  have  with 
Germany,  and  it  is  unthinkable  that  Italy  should 
go  in  with  the  Central  Powers  against  the  Triple 
Entente.  Besides,  how  is  England  to  fight  Ger- 
many? It  is  the  elephant  and  the  whale.  England 
hasn't  got  an  army,  has  it?  I  can't  remember  any- 
thing connected  with  soldiers  in  England,  except 
some  sort  of  barracks  with  a  small  temple  or  chapel 
in  front  of  it  somewhere  in  St.  James's  Park.  And 
I  suppose  the  German  fleet  is  only  a  sort  of  herring- 
boat  compared  to  a  liner,  if  it  comes  to  ships.  So 
really  I  don't  see  how  the  two  countries  could  fight 
each  other  even  if  they  wanted  to. 

"Even  if  you  don't  come  now,  you'll  be  certain  to 
be  back  in  September,  won't  you?  Otherwise  I 
shall  think  that  there  is  some  validity  in  presenti- 
ments, for  you  went  away  with  a  notion  that  it  was 
not  only  for  a  month  or  two  that  you  went.  Better 
put  an  end  to  vain  superstition  by  coming  back 
before. 

"Ever  yours, 

"Francis." 

"P.S. — Send  a  wire  if  you  are  coming.  They  say 
the  posts  are  disorganized. 

"Donna  Margherita  has  had  words  with  Miss 
Machonochie's  cook.  I'm  sure  I  don't  want  any 
harm  to  come  to  Miss  Machonochie  or  her  house- 
hold, but  I  think  there  must  already  be  a  leak  in  her 
cistern.  That  would  be  a  good  day's  work  for 
Donna  Margherita,  wouldn't  it?    Otherwise,  when 


AUGUST,  1914  107 

we  all  have  plenty  of  water,  why  should  Miss  M. 
alone  be  wanting  it?" 

Reading  this,  I  felt  for  a  moment  here  and  there 
that  the  events  of  this  last  week  must  have  been  a 
dream,  so  vividly  did  the  island  and  the  island  life 
etch  themselves  on  a  page.  For  a  half  second  I 
could  smell  the  frying  of  the  pine-kernels,  could  hear 
Pasqualino's  quick  step  across  the  passage,  as  he 
entered  from  his  Brangaene  duty  on  the  balcony  to 
tell  us  that  Miss  Machonochie's  foot  was  coming 
firmly  up  the  steps.  But  the  next  moment  the  huge 
background  of  war  was  set  up  again,  and  all  these 
things  were  strangely  remote  and  dim.  They  had 
happened,  perhaps,  at  least  I  seemed  to  remember 
them,  but  they  no  longer  had  any  touch  of  reality 
about  them,  were  of  the  quality  of  dreams.  .  .  . 
The  same  unreality  possessed  Francis's  suave  sur- 
mises about  the  improbability  of  England's  going  to 
war  with  Germany,  for  the  only  thing  that  was 
actual  was  that  she  had  done  so.  And  not  less  un- 
real was  the  fact  of  Francis  himself  living  the  life 
that  he  and  I  also  had  lived  before  this  cataclysm 
came.  All  that  belonged  to  some  prehistoric  period 
which  ceased  something  less  than  a  week  ago.  Less 
than  a  week  ago,  too,  I  had  been  baptized  and  be- 
come a  member  of  England,  and  already,  so  swiftly 
does  the  soul  no  less  than  the  body  adjust  itself  to 
changed  conditions,  the  sense  of  having  ever  been 
otherwise,  had  vanished  as  completely  as  the  aching 


108  UP  AND  DOWN 

of  a  tooth  after  the  offender  has  been  dealt  with,  and 
you  can  no  longer  imagine  the  pain  it  gave  you. 

But  the  letter  was  a  difficult  one  to  answer;  I 
could  not  convey  to  him  what  had  happened  to  me, 
any  more  than  in  this  letter  he  could,  except  for  a 
transient  second,  convey  to  me  a  realization  of  what 
had  not  happened  to  him.  I  began  a  dozen  times: 
"I  have  just  been  to  Trafalgar  Square,  and  cannot 

picture  to  you  the  thrill  that  'Rule,  Britannia'  " 

Clearly  that  would  not  do.  I  tried  again  with  a  jest 
to  hide  the  seriousness  of  it:  "What  do  they  know  of 
England  who  only  Italy  know?"  I  tried  yet  again: 
"Since  seeing  you  something  has  happened  that 
makes " 

And  at  that  moment  the  cry  of  a  newsvendor  in 
the  street  made  me  rush  out  for  the  sixth  time  that 
afternoon  to  see  what  the  latest  information  was. 
Liege  still  held  out,  it  seemed,  though  it  was  ru- 
moured that  certain  of  its  forts  had  fallen.  But  still 
the  most  gallant  of  the  little  States  held  up  the 
Titanic  invasion  that  was  pouring  down  upon  it, 
maintaining  in  the  face  of  terrific  pressure  its  protest 
and  its  resistance  to  the  onrush  of  that  infamous  sea, 
in  the  depths  of  which  German  honour  already  lay 
drowned.  How  could  any  man  fail  to  know  what 
the  sense  of  the  native  land,  of  patriotism  meant, 
when  he  saw  what  a  supreme  meaning  it  actually 
did  have?  It  is  the  fashion  of  cynics  to  say  that 
mankind  will  suffer  and  deny  themselves  for  the 
sake  of  some  definite  concrete  thing,  like  money  or 
a  jewel  or  a  picture,  but  never  for  an  idea.     Here 


AUGUST,  1914  109 

was  an  instance  that  blew  such  cynicism  to  atoms. 
Already  the  soil  of  Belgium,  its  cities  and  its  plains 
were  lost,  and  its  people  knew  it.  But  they  fought, 
beaten  and  indomitable,  just  because  it  was  an  idea 
that  inspired  them — namely,  the  freedom  of  those 
who  were  already  conquered  (for  none  could  doubt 
the  outcome),  the  independence  of  the  country 
which  must  soon  for  certain  lay  beneath  the  heel  of 
Prussian  murderers,  who  slew  their  children  and 
violated  their  women,  and  could  no  more  touch  the 
spirit  of  the  people  than  they  could  quench  the  light 
of  the  moon.  Normally,  perhaps,  we  more  often 
feel  the  pull  and  the  press  of  material  things;  but 
when  there  is  heard  in  a  man's  soul  the  still  small 
voice,  which  is  greater  than  fire  or  earthquake,  his 
true  being  wakes,  and  at  the  spiritual  call,  whether 
of  religion  or  love  or  patriotism,  he  answers  to  an 
idea  that  far  transcends  all  the  beckonings  of  mate- 
rial sense.  It  is  then  that  those  we  thought  smug 
and  comfort-smothered,  bound  in  the  bonds  of 
peaceful  prosperity,  break  from  their  earth-bound 
fetters  and  their  sleep  at  the  voice  of  the  God  which 
is  immanent  in  them.  There  is  no  material  profit 
to  gain,  but  all  to  lose,  and  eagerly,  like  ballast  that 
keeps  them  down,  they  cast  everything  else  over- 
board, and  sweep  soaring  into  the  untamishable  sun- 
light of  their  real  being.  For  it  is  not  only  the 
stocks  and  stones  of  his  native  land  that  a  man  loves, 
any  more  than  it  is  just  the  eyebrows  and  the 
throat  of  his  mistress  that  he  worships.  He  loves 
them  because  they  are  symbols  and  expression  of  her 


110  UP  AND  DOWN 

who  inhabits  them.  They  are  the  bodily  tokens  of 
the  beloved  spirit  that  dwells  there.  Under  that 
inspiration  the  dumb  lips  prophesy,  as  the  coal  from 
the  altar  is  laid  on  them,  and  their  land  becomes  a 
temple  filled,  even  in  the  darkness  of  their  affliction, 
with  the  glory  of  the  Lord.  The  terror  by  night 
and  the  arrow  that  flieth  by  day  have  no  power  to 
daunt  them,  for  high  above  earthly  things  is  set 
their  house  of  defence. 

There  rose  then  from  this,  quiet  little  land,  sure 
and  untroubled  as  the  rising  of  the  moon,  a  race  of 
heroes.  From  further  east,  across  the  Rhine,  there 
was  another  rising,  the  monstrous  birth  of  a  presence 
and  a  portent  undreamed  of.  It  towered  into  the 
sky,  and  soon  at  its  breath  the  forts  of  Liege  and  of 
Namur  crumbled  and  fell,  and  it  passed  on  phallic 
and  murderous  over  the  corpses  of  slain  children  and 
violated  mothers.  Those  who  thought  they  knew 
Germany  could  not  at  first  believe  that  this  was  the 
spirit  and  these  the  infamies  of  the  land  they  loved. 
She  who  had  stood  for  so  much  to  them,  she  the 
mother  of  music,  the  cradle  of  sciences,  the  lover  of 
all  that  was  lovely,  was  changed  as  by  the  waving 
of  a  magician's  rod  into  a  monster  of  hell,  oozing 
with  the  slime  of  the  nethermost  pit.  Many  could 
not  credit  the  tales  that  flooded  the  press,  and  put 
them  down  to  mere  sensational  news-mongering. 
But  they  were  true,  though  they  were  not  the  whole 
truth;  the  half  of  it  had  not  been  told  us.  The 
race  of  musicians,  scientists,  artists,  of  chivalrous 
knights,  still  took  as  their  motto:  "The  women  and 


AUGUST,  1914  111 

children  first."  But  they  played  upon  the  words, 
and  smiled  to  each  other  at  the  pun.  Pleading  the 
necessity  that  knows  no  law,  they  had  torn  up  their 
treaty,  avowing  that  it  was  but  a  scrap  of  paper, 
and  dishonouring  for  ever  the  value  of  their  word, 
now,  like  some  maniac,  they  mutilated  the  law  they 
had  murdered.  It  may  be  that  Germany  was  but 
the  first  victim  of  Prussian  militarism,  and  Belgium 
the  second;  but  Germany  had  sold  its  soul,  and  it 
kept  its  bargain  with  the  power  that  had  bought  it. 

While  still  Francis's  letter  remained  unanswered 
on  my  desk,  I  received  another  from  him,  written 
several  days  later,  which  had  made  a  quicker  transit. 

^This  is  all  damnable,"  he  said.  "Of  course  we 
had  to  come  in  when  Belgium  was  invaded.  I 
skulked  all  day  in  the  house  while  it  was  yet  uncer- 
tain, for  I  simply  dared  not  show  an  English  face  in 
the  streets  for  shame.  Thank  God  that's  all  right. 
I  never  thought  I  could  have  cared  so  much.  They 
sang  ^Rule,  Britannia,'  in  the  Piazza  to-day,  wonder- 
fully vague  and  sketchy.  You  know  what  my  sing- 
ing is,  but  I  tell  you  I  joined.  It  was  a  strange 
thing  to  hear  that  tune  in  a  country  which  was  sup- 
posed to  be  allied  with  the  nation  on  whom  Eng- 
land has  declared  war,  but  there  it  was.  They  say 
that  Italy  has  declared  neutrality.  You'll  know  by 
the  time  you  get  this  whether  that  is  so.  By  the 
way,  if  it  is  true  that  we  are  sending  an  Expedition- 
ary Force  to  France,  just  send  me  a  wire,  will  you? 
The  papers  are  full  of  news  one  day  which  is  con- 


112  UP  AND  DOWN 

tradicted  the  next,  and  one  doesn't  know  what  to 
believe  about  England's  attitude  and  doings. 

"There's  no  news  on  this  dead-alive  island.  I  feel 
frightfully  cut  off,  and  it's  odd  to  feel  cut  off  in  the 
place  where  you've  lived  for  so  long.  I  began  an 
article  on  the  early  French  mystics  last  week,  but  I 
can't  get  on  with  it.     Mind  you  send  me  a  telegram. 

"Francis." 

I  sent  the  telegram  saying  that  an  Expeditionary 
Force  to  help  the  French  to  hold  their  frontier  had 
already  landed  in  France,  and  more  men  were  being 
sent.  Next  morning  I  received  a  brief  telegram  in 
answer: 

"Am  starting  for  England  to-day." 

Liege  fell,  Namur  fell,  and  like  a  torrent  that  has 
gathered  strength  and  volume  from  being  momen- 
tarily damned  up,  the  stream  of  the  invaders  roared 
through  France,  and  on  her  as  well  as  on  England 
descended  the  perils  of  their  darkest  and  most 
hazardous  hour.  Sheer  weight  of  metal  drove  the 
line  of  the  Allies  back  and  back,  wavering  and  dinted 
but  never  broken.  In  England,  but  for  the  hysteri- 
cal screams  of  a  few  journalists  who  spoke  of  the 
"scattered  units"  of  a  routed  army  making  their  way 
back  singly  or  in  small  companies,  the  temper  of 
the  nation  remained  steadfast  and  unshaken,  and 
in  France,  though  daily  the  thunder  of  the  invaders 
boomed  ever  nearer  to  Paris,  nothing  had  power  to 


AUGUST,  1914  113 

shake  the  inflexible  will  of  our  ally.  It  mattered 
not  that  the  seat  of  the  Government  must  be  trans- 
ferred to  Bordeaux,  and  thither  they  went;  but  the 
heart  of  France  beat  on  without  a  tremor,  waiting 
for  ,the  day  which  none  doubted  would  come,  when 
they  turned  and  faced  the  advancing  tide,  breasted 
it,  and  set  up  the  breakwater  that  stretched  from 
the  North  Sea  to  the  borders  of  Switzerland.  Right 
across  France  was  it  established,  through  ruined 
homesteads  and  devastated  valleys,  and  against  it  in 
vain  did  the  steel  billows  beat. 

Here  I  have  a  little  anticipated  events,  for  it  was 
in  the  days  while  still  the  Germans  swept  unchecked 
across  north-eastern  France  that  Francis  arrived, 
after  a  devious  and  difficult  journey,  that  brought 
him  on  shipboard  at  Havre.  He  had  no  psycho- 
logical account  to  give  of  the  change  that  had  oc- 
curred between  his  first  letter  and  his  telegram;  he 
had  simply  been  unable  to  do  anything  else  than 
come. 

"I  know  you  like  analysis,"  he  said,  "but  really 
there  is  no  analysis  to  give  you.  I  was,  so  I  found 
myself,  suddenly  sick  with  anxiety  that  England 
should  come  into  the  war  (I  think  I  wrote  you  that), 
and  when  your  telegram  came,  saying  we  were  send- 
ing a  force  abroad,  I  merely  had  to  come  home  and 
see  if  there  was  anything  for  me  to  do.  One  has  got 
to  do  something,  you  know,  got  to  do  something! 
Fancy  my  having  been  English  all  these  years,  and 
it's  only  coming  out  now,  like  getting  measles  when 
you're  grown  up." 


114  UP  AND  DOWN 

There  was  no  need  then  to  explain,  and  Francis,  in 
his  philosophical  manner,  tried  to  define  what  it 
was  that  had  so  moved  him,  and  found,  as  so  often 
happens  when  we  attempt  to  fit  words  to  a  force  that 
is  completely  unmaterial,  that  he  could  at  first  only 
mention  a  quantity  of  things  that  it  was  not.  It 
was  not  that  he  felt  the  smallest  affection  for  Lon- 
don, or  Lincoln,  or  Leeds;  he  did  not  like  Piccadilly 
any  more  than  he  had  done  before,  or  the  mud,  or 
the  veiled  atmosphere.  Nor  did  he  regard  any  of 
the  inhabitants  of  our  island  with  a  greater  warmth 
than  previously.  Besides  myself,  he  had  after  his 
long  absence  abroad  no  one  whom  he  could  call  a 
friend,  and  of  the  rest,  the  porter  who  had  carried 
his  luggage  to  the  train  at  Southampton  had  not 
thanked  him  for  a  reasonable  tip;  the  guard  had 
been  uncivil;  the  motor  driver  who  brought  him  to 
my  house  was  merely  a  fool.  Indeed,  whatever 
component  part  of  the  entity  that  made  up  England 
he  considered,  he  found  he  disliked  it,  and  yet  the 
thought  of  all  those  disagreeable  things  as  a  whole 
had  been  enough  to  make  him  leave  the  siren  isle, 
and  come  post-haste  across  the  continent  to  get  to 
that  surly  northern  town,  in  which  he  had  not  set 
foot  for  a  dozen  years.  And,  being  here,  he  did  not 
regret,  as  an  impulsive  and  ill-considered  step,  his 
exile  from  Alatri.  There  was  no  fault  to  be  found 
with  that;  it  had  been  as  imperative  as  the  physical 
needs  of  thirst  and  hunger.  He  got  up,  gesticulat- 
ing, in  Italian  fashion. 

"Where  does  it  come  from?"  he  said.     "What  is 


AUGUST,  1914  115 

it  that  called  me?  Is  it  something  from  without? 
Is  it  a  mixture,  a  chemical  soul-mixture  of  the 
grumpy  porter  and  the  grey  sea,  and  this  dismal, 
half-lit  afternoon  that  is  considered  a  lovely  day  in 
London?  Or  is  it  from  within,  some  instinct  bred 
from  fifty  generations  of  English  blood,  that  just  sat 
quiet  in  me  and  only  waited  till  it  was  wanted?  I 
hate  doing  things  without  knowing  the  reason  why 
I  do  them.  I  always  said  'Why?'  when  I  was  a 
child,  and  I  only  don't  say  'Why?'  now,  because  if  I 
want  to  know  something,  I  sit  and  think  about  it 
instead  of  asking  other  people.  But  all  the  way 
here  I've  been  considering  it,  and  I  can't  see  why 
I  had  to  come  back.  I  don't  think  it's  only  some- 
thing internal.  There's  a  magnet  outside  that  sud- 
denly turned  its  poles  to  us,  and  instantly  we 
jumped  to  it  like  iron  filings  and  stuck  there. 
There's  no  shirking  it.  There  I  was  in  Italy,  saying 
to  myself  that  I  wasn't  an  iron  filing,  and  should 
stop  exactly  where  I  was.  But  the  magnet  didn't 
care.  It  just  turned  towards  me,  and  I  jumped.  It 
will  keep  me  attached,  I  suppose,  as  long  as  there's 
any  use  for  me." 

He  was  feeling  his  way  gropingly  but  unerringly 
down  into  himself,  and  I  listened  as  this,  the  sim- 
plest of  men,  but  that  deft  surgeon  of  minds,  cut  and 
dissected  down  into  his  own. 

'The  magnet,  the  magnet!"  he  said.  "I  think 
that  the  magnet  is  something  that  lies  behind  mere 
patriotism.  Patriotism  perhaps  is  the  steel  of  which 
it  is  made;  it  is  the  material  through  which  the  fores 


116  UP  AND  DOWN 

is  sent,  the  channel  of  its  outpouring,  but  .  .  .  but 
it  isn't  only  to  put  myself  at  the  disposal  of  Eng- 
land in  my  infinitesimal  manner  that  I  have  come 
back.  England  is  the  steel  of  the  magnet — yes,  just 
that;  but  England  isn't  the  force  that  magne- 
tizes it." 

He  dropped  down  on  the  hearth-rug,  and  lay  there 
with  the  back  of  his  hands  over  his  eyes,  as  he  so 
often  lay  on  the  beach  at  the  Palazzo  a  mare. 

"I  haven't  wasted  all  those  years  at  Alatri,"  he 
said,  "when  I  was  gardening  and  mooning  about  and 
looking  at  the  sea.  I  have  come  to  realize  what  I 
remember  saying  to  you  once,  when  I  picked  up  a 
bit  of  green  stone  on  the  beach,  that  it  was  you  or 
me  and  God.  To  do  that  I  had  got  to  get  out  of 
myself.  .  .  .  We  collect  a  hard  shell  round  ourselves 
like  mussels  or  oysters,  and  we  speak  of  it  as  'ours.' 
It's  just  that  which  we  are  bound  to  get  rid  of,  if 
we  are  able  to  see  things  in  any  way  truly.  We 
talk  of  'having'  things;  that's  the  illusion  we  suffer 
from.  We  can't  enter  into  our  real  kingdom  till  we 
quite  get  red  of  the  sense  that  anything  is  ours,  thus 
abdicating  from  the  kingdom  we  falsely  believed  to 
be  our  own.  That's  the  glorious  and  perfect  para- 
dox of  mysticism.  We  have  everything  the  moment 
we  get  rid  of  ourselves,  and  the  sense  that  we  have 
anything.  You  can  express  it  in  a  hundred  ways: 
the  lover  expresses  it  when  he  says:  'Oh,  my  beloved, 
I  am  you!'  Christ  expresses  it  when  He  says: 
'What  shall  it  profit  a  man  if  he  gain  the  whole 
world,  and  lose  his  own  soul?'    As  long  as  you  cling 


AUGUST,  1914  117 

to  anything,  you  can^t  get  at  your  soul,  in  which  is 
God. 

"Patriotism,  standing  by  the  honour  of  your 
country  when  your  country  is  staking  itself  on  a 
principle,  seems  to  me  a  materialization  of  this  force, 
the  steel  through  which  it  can  act.  Well,  when  you 
believe  in  a  principle,  as  I  do,  you've  got  to  live  up 
to  your  belief  in  it,  and  suffer  any  amount  of  per- 
sonal inconvenience.  You  mustn't  heed  that,  or 
else  you  are  not  getting  outside  yourself.  So  if 
England  wants  a  limb  or  an  eye,  or  anything  else, 
why,  it's  hers,  not  mine." 

He  was  silent  a  moment. 

"And  perhaps  there's  another  thing,  another 
drama,  another  war  going  on,"  he  said.  "Do  you 
remember  some  fable  in  Plato,  where  Socrates  says 
that  all  that  happens  here  upon  earth  is  but  a  re- 
flection, an  adumbration  of  the  Real?  Is  it  possible, 
do  you  think,  that  in  the  sphere  of  the  eternal  some 
great  conflict  is  waging,  and  Michael  and  his  angels 
are  fighting  against  the  dragon?  Plato  is  so  often 
right,  you  know.  He  says  that  is  why  beauty  affects 
the  soul,  because  the  soul  is  reminded  of  the  true 
beauty,  which  it  saw  once,  and  will  see  again.  Why 
else  should  we  love  beauty,  you  know?" 

He  got  up  with  a  laugh. 

"But  it's  puzzhng  work  is  talking,  as  Mr.  TuUiver 
said.  However,  there's  my  guess  at  the  answer  of 
the  riddle,  as  to  why  I  came  home.  And  it  really 
is  such  a  relief  to  me  to  find  that  I  didn't  cling  to 
what  I  had.     I  was  always  afraid  that  I  might, 


118  UP  AND  DOWN 

when  it  came  to  the  point.  But  it  wasn^t  the  slight- 
est effort  to  give  it  up,  all  that  secure  quiet  life ;  the 
effort  would  have  been  not  to  give  it  up.  I  don't 
in  the  least  want  to  be  shot,  or  taken  prisoner,  or 
brutally  maimed,  but  if  any  of  those  things  are  going 
to  happen  to  me,  I  shan't  quarrel  with  them." 

"And  when  the  war  is  over?"  I  asked. 

"Why,  naturally,  I  shall  go  back  to  Alatri  by  the 
earliest  possible  train  and  continue  thinking. 
That's  what  I'm  alive  for,  except  when  it's  neces- 
sary to  act  my  creed,  instead  of  spelling  out  more 
of  it.  I  say,  may  we  have  dinner  before  long?  This 
beastly  bracing  English  air  makes  me  very  hungry." 

Francis  refused  all  thought  of  getting  a  commis- 
sion, since  it  seemed  to  him  that  this  was  not  doing 
the  thing  properly,  and  enlisted  next  day  as  a  pri- 
vate. For  myself,  since  circumstances  over  which 
I  had  no  control  prevented  my  doing  anything  of 
the  sort,  I  found  work  connected  with  the  war  which 
to  some  extent  was  a  palliative  of  the  sense  of  use- 
lessness.  It  was  quite  dull,  very  regular,  and  en- 
tailed writing  an  immense  quantity  of  letters. 

And  at  this  point  I  propose  to  pass  over  a  whole 
year  in  which  the  grim  relentless  business  went  on. 
Like  wrestlers,  the  opposing  armies  on  the  Western 
Front  were  locked  in  a  deadly  grip,  each  unable  to 
advance,  each  refusing  to  give  ground.  On  the  east 
Russia  advanced  and  was  swept  back  again;  in  the 
Balkans,  owing  to  our  inept  diplomacy  Turkey  and 
Bulgaria   joined    the    enemy.     During   the    spring 


AUGUST,  1914  119 

Italy  abandoned  her  neutrality  and  joined  the  Allies. 
Expeditions  were  sent  out  to  Mesopotamia  and  the 
Dardanelles.  For  a  year  the  war  flamed,  and  the 
smoke  of  its  burning  overshadowed  the  earth. 


SEPTEMBER,  1915 

I  DO  not  suppose  that  there  is  any  literal  truth  in 
that  remarkable  piece  of  natural  history  which  tells 
us  that  eels  get  used  to  being  skinned.  It  may  have 
been  invented  by  those  who  like  eating  that  exe- 
crable worm,  or,  more  probably,  it  is  a  proverbial 
simile  which  is  meant  to  convey  a  most  unques- 
tionable truth,  namely,  that  however  unpleasant  a 
thing  may  be,  in  time  we  get  adjusted  to  it.  It 
would  be  an  ill  thing  for  the  human  race  if  they  did 
not,  and  argues  no  callousness  on  their  part.  It  is 
simply  one  of  Nature's  arrangements,  an  example  of 
the  recuperative  power  which  enables  us  to  throw 
off  colds,  and  mends  the  skin  when  we  have  cut 
ourselves  shaving.  If  every  wound,  physical  and 
moral  alike,  remained  raw,  the  race  could  not  con- 
tinue, but  would  speedily  expire  from  loss  of  blood 
and  gangrene.  And  if  in  process  of  time  we  did 
not  rally  from  staggering  blows,  we  should  all  of  us, 
at  an  early  age  lie  prone  on  our  backs,  squealing, 
till  death  mercifully  put  an  end  to  our  troubles. 
But  all  our  lives  we  are  receiving  wounds  and  blows, 
and  we  recuperate.  Only  once  during  this  mortal 
existence  do  we  fail  to  recover,  more  or  less,  from 
things  that  at  first  seemed  intolerable,  and  then  we 
die. 

120 


SEPTEMBER,  1915  121 

This  invariable  rule  applies  to  the  positioii  in 
which  we  find  ourselves  after  thirteen  months  of 
war.  Most  of  us  have  suffered  intimate  losses; 
there  is  scarcely  a  man  or  woman  in  England  whom 
death  has  not  robbed  of  some  friend  or  relation. 
But  we  are  not  as  a  nation  bewildered  and  all 
abroad,  as  ^e  were  thirteen  months  ago.  We  do 
not  wake  every  morning  with  the  sense  that  after 
oblivion  of  the  night  we  are  roused  to  a  nightmare 
existence.  We  have  somehow  adjusted  ourselves  to 
what  is  happening,  and  this  adjustment  argues  no 
callousness  or  insensibility;  it  is  just  the  result  of 
the  natural  process  by  virtue  of  which  we  are  en- 
abled to  continue  living.  Also,  the  need  that 
Francis  felt  when  he  said,  ''One  must  do  something," 
has  come  to  the  aid  of  those  who  in  general,  before 
the  days  of  the  war,  never  did  anything  particular 
beyond  amusing  themselves.  This  really  implied 
that  other  people  had  got  to  amuse  them  by  giving 
them  dinner-parties  and  concerts  and  what  not,  and 
since  these  had  no  time  to  attend  to  them  now,  a 
remarkably  large  percentage  of  the  drones,  finding 
that  nobody  was  providing  for  them,  set  to  work  for 
once  in  their  lives,  and  slaved  away  at  funds  or  hos- 
pitals or  soup-kitchens,  and  found  that  to  do  some- 
thing for  other  people  was  not  half  so  tedious  as 
they  had  supposed  before  they  gave  it  a  trial.  This 
was  a  very  salutary  piece  of  natural  adjustment, 
and  they  all  felt  much  the  better  for  it.  A  certain 
number  of  confirmed  drones  I  suppose  there  will 


122  UP  AND  DOWN 

always  be,  but  certainly  London  has  become  a  much 
more  industrious  hive  than  it  ever  used  to  be. 

Another  process  has  contributed  to  the  recupera- 
tive process,  for  the  details  of  life  have  been  much 
simplified.  When  your  income  is  ruthlessly  cut 
down,  as  has  happened  to  most  of  us,  it  is  clear  that 
something  must  be  done.  The  first  thing  we  all 
did,  naturally,  was  to  raise  a  wild  chorus  of  asserting 
that  we  were  ruined.  But  when  these  minor  strains 
did  not  seem  to  mend  matters  much,  most  people, 
under  the  recuperative  force,  began  to  consider  and 
make  catalogues  of  all  the  things  which  they  could 
quite  well  do  without.  It  is  astonishing  how  volu- 
minous these  catalogues  were.  Those  who  had  foot- 
men who  went  to  the  war,  like  proper  young  men^ 
suddenly  found  out  that  there  were  such  things  as 
parlour-maids.  Those  who  rolled  about  in  motor- 
cars discovered  that  there  were  taxicabs,  and  it  was 
even  hinted  in  more  advanced  circles  that  'buses 
plied  upon  the  London  streets  and  tubes  underneath 
them.  There  was  some  vague  element  of  sport 
about  it:  it  was  something  new  to  lie  in  ambush  at 
a  street  comer  and  pounce  on  No.  19  that  went  up 
Sloane  Street  and  along  Shaftesbury  Avenue,  or  get 
hopelessly  befogged  in  the  stupefying  rabbit  warrens 
that  are  excavated  below  Piccadilly  Circus. 

In  spite,  then,  of  the  huge  tragedies,  the  cruel  be- 
reavements, the  distress  among  those  whose  econo- 
mies were  in  no  way  a  game,  but  a  grinding  neces- 
sity, we  have  adjusted  ourselves,  and  are  alive  to  the 
amazing  fact  that  the  day  of  little  things,  the  small 


^  SEPTEMBER,  1915  123 

ordinary  caresses  and  pleasures  of  life,  is  not  over. 
For  a  while  it  was  utterly  darkened,  the  sun  stood 
in  full-orbed  eclipse,  but  now  (not  callously)  we 
can  take  pleasure  in  our  little  amusements  and 
festas  and  fusses,  though,  owing  to  more  useful  occu- 
pations, we  have  not  so  much  time  for  them.  To 
compare  a  small  affair  with  these  great  ones,  I  re- 
member how  a  few  years  ago  I  suddenly  had  to  face 
a  serious  operation.  The  moment  at  which  I  was 
told  this  was  one  of  black  horrc^-.  There  the  doctor 
sat  opposite  me,  looking  prosperous  and  comfortable, 
and  said:.  "You  must  make  up  your  mind  to  it; 
have  it  done  at  once."  Being  a  profound  physical 
coward,  the  thing  seemed  quite  unfaceable,  an  im- 
possibility. But  before  an  hour  was  up,  the  adjust- 
ment had  come,  and  once  more  the  savour  of  the 
world  stole  back.  The  sun  that  day  was  just  as 
warm  as  it  had  ever  been,  food  was  good,  the  faces 
of  friends  were  dear,  and  the  night  before  it  was  to 
take  place  I  slept  well,  and  when  finally  I  was  told  it 
was  time  to  go  along  the  passage  to  where  the  opera- 
tion was  to  be  done,  I  remember  turning  down  the 
page  of  the  book  I  was  reading  and  wondering  less 
what  was  going  to  happen  to  me  than  to  the  char- 
acters of  the  novel.  Nothing,  in  fact,  is  unfaceable 
when  you  have  to  face  it;  nothing  entirely  robs  the 
eye  and  the  ear  of  its  little  accustomed  pleasures. 

But  what  is  much  more  important  than  the  fact 
that  the  little  things  of  life  have  put  forth  their 
buds  again  is  that  as  a  nation  our  eyes,  half  closed 
in  dreamy  contentment,  have  been  opened  to  the 


124  UP  AND  DOWN 

day  of  great  things.  The  outbreak  of  war  in  August 
last  year  was  an  earthquake  inconceivable  and  over- 
whelming ;  but  it  has  become  one  of  the  things  that 
is,  an  austere  majestic  fact.  Among  its  debris  and 
scarred  surfaces,  not  only  has  the  mantle  of  growth 
with  which  Nature  always  clothes  her  upheavals  be- 
gun to  spring  up,  but  the  smoke  of  its  ruin,  like  the 
cloud  of  ash  over  Vesuvius,  has  soared  into  high 
places,  and  its  deepest  shadows  are  lit  with  splen- 
dours that  irradiate  and  transfigure  them.  It  is  not 
of  terror  alone  that  tragedy  is  compounded;  there 
is  pity  in  it  as  well,  the  pity  that  enlightens  and 
purges,  the  unsealing  of  the  human  heart.  God 
knows  what  still  lies  in  the  womb  of  the  future,  but 
already  there  has  come  to  us  a  certain  steadfastness 
that  lay  dormant,  waiting  for  the  trumpet  to  awaken 
it.  We  are,  it  is  to  be  hoped,  a  little  simpler,  a  little 
more  serious,  a  little  busier  over  doing  obvious 
duties,  a  little  less  set  on  amusements  and  extrava- 
gancies. And  I  do  not  think  we  are  the  worse  for 
that.  The  faith  in  which  we  entered  the  war,  that 
ours  was  a  righteous  quarrel,  has  proved  itself  un- 
shakable; the  need  to  stand  firm  has  knitted  the 
nation  together. 

Of  our  necessities,  our  failures,  our  endeavours 
and  our  rewards  in  these  great  matters,  it  is  not 
possible  to  speak,  for  they  are  among  the  sacred 
things  that  dwell  in  silence.  But  there  are,  you 
may  say,  certain  condiments  in  life  which  can  be 
spoken  of.  First  and  foremost  among  them  is  a 
sense  of  humour,  which  has  been  extremely  useful. 


SEPTEMBER,  1915  125 

Without  losing  sight  of  the  main  issue,  or  wanting 
to  forget  the  tragic  gravity  of  it  all,  it  would  be 
ridiculous  to  behave  like  pessimists  and  pacifists, 
and  with  distorted  faces  of  gloom  and  pain,  to  shud- 
der at  the  notion  of  finding  aaything  to  smile  at. 
Even  while  we  are  aghast  at  the  profanity  with 
which  the  German  Emperor  regards  himself  as  a 
Moses  of  the  New  Dispensation,  and  steps  down  from 
the  thunderclouds  of  Sinai  with  the  tables  that 
have  been  personally  entrusted  to  him,  on  the 
strength  of  which  he  orders  his  submarines  to  tor- 
pedo peaceful  merchant  vessels,  we  cannot  (or 
should  not)  help  smiling  at  this  Imperial  buffoon. 
Or  why  waste  a  shudder  on  his  idiot  son,  when  a 
smile  would  not  be  wasted,  since  it  would  do  us 
good?  Surely  there  are  bright  spots  in  the  black- 
ness. Or  again,  though  hate  is  a  most  hellish  emo- 
tion, and  it  is,  of  course,  dreadful  to  think  of  one 
white  nation  being  taught  to  hate  another,  yet  when 
people  compose  a  hymn  of  hate  for  the  English, 
words  and  music,  and  have  it  printed  and  sold  at  a 
loss  all  over  the  German  Empire  in  order  to  root 
more  firmly  yet  the  invincible  resolve  of  the  Teuton 
to  strafe  England,  is  it  reasonable  not  to  feel  cheered 
up  by  the  ludicrousness  of  these  proceedings?  Cer- 
tainly it  is  a  pity  to  hate  anybody;  but,  given  that, 
may  we  not  treasure  tenderly  this  crowning  instance 
of  the  thoroughness  of  the  frightful  German  race? 
I  am  glad  they  did  that;  it  does  me  good.  When  I 
think  of  that,  my  food,  as  Walt  Whitman  says, 
nourishes  me  more.    I  like  to  think  of  Prince  Oscar 


126  UP  AND  DOWN 

sending  a  telegram  to  his  father,  saying  that  he  has 
had  the  overpowering  happiness  to  be  wounded  for 
the  sake  of  the  Fatherland.  I  am  glad  his  father 
sent  for  a  Press  agent  and  had  those  precious  words 
published  in  every  paper  in  the  Fatherland,  and  I 
trust  that  Prince  Oscar,  since  he  likes  being  wounded 
so  much,  will  get  well  quickly  and  go  back  and  be 
wounded  again.  I  am  pleased  that  when  Russia 
was  sending  hundreds  of  thousands  of  troops 
through  England  to  join  the  Western  battle-line,  the 
fact  was  put  beyond  a  doubt  by  somebody's  game- 
keeper seeing  bearded  men  getting  out  of  a  train  at 
Swindon  on  a  hot  day  and  stamping  the  snow  from 
their  boots,  which  proved  they  had  come  from  Arch- 
angel. ...  It  all  helps.  Queen  Elizabeth  was  a  wise 
woman  when  she  said  that  we  have  need  of  mirth 
in  England.     God  knows  we  have. 

I  have  been  a  year  in  London,  hardly  stirring  from 
it  by  reason  of  things  to  do ;  but  a  fortnight  ago  I 
escaped  into  Norfolk  for  a  breathing-space  of  air 
and  sea.  It  was  a  good  sea,  in  the  manner  of  north- 
em  seas,  and  though  it  was  impossible  not  to  con- 
trast it  with  the  hot  beach  and  lucid  waters  of  the 
Palazzo  a  mare,  I  would  not  have  exchanged  it  for 
that  delectable  spot.  High,  sheer  sand-cliffs  lined 
the  coast,  and  on  their  edges  were  dug  trenches  with 
parapets  of  sandbags,  while  here  and  there,  where 
the  cliffs  were  broken  away,  there  were  lines  of 
barbed  wire  entanglements.  These,  I  must  hope, 
were  only,  so  to  speak,  practice  efforts,  for  I  found 
it  saved  time,  when  going  down  to  bathe  early,  to 


SEPTEMBER,  1915  127 

step  through  these,  with  an  eye  to  pyjama  legs, 
rather  than  walk  an  extra  hundred  yards  to  a  gap 
in  those  coast  defences.  But  it  all  gave  one  a  sense 
that  this  was  England,  alert  and  at  war,  and  the 
sea  itself  aided  the  realization.  For  there  every 
day  would  pass  cruisers  or  torpedo-boats,  no  longer 
in  peaceful  manoeuvres,  but  engaged,  swift  and 
watchful,  on  their  real  business.  Sometimes  one 
would  be  running  parallel  with  the  coast,  and  then 
turn  and  roar  seawards,  till  only  a  track  of  smoke 
on  the  horizon  marked  its  passage.  But  that  was 
the  real  thing;  the  armour  of  England  was  buckled 
on;  it  was  no  longer  just  being  polished  and  made 
ready.  The  whole  coast  was  patrolled,  and  all  was 
part  of  one  organized  plan  of  defence,  and  when  the 
moment  came,  of  offence;  somewhere  out  there  the 
Grand  Fleet  waited,  as  it  had  waited  more  than  a 
year;  these  ships  that  passed  and  went  seaward 
again  were  the  sentries  that  walked  round  the  forts 
of  the  ocean. 

A  week  on  the  coast  was  followed  by  a  few  days  at 
a  country  house  inland  before  I  returned  to  London^ 
and  once  again  the  realization  of  war  had  a  vivid 
moment.  The  house  where  I  was  staying  was  sur- 
rounded by  pheasant  covers  that  came  close  up  to 
the  garden,  where  one  night  after  dinner  I  was 
straying  with  a  friend.  It  was  warm  and  still;  the 
odour  of  the  night-blooming  stocks  hung  on  the  air; 
the  sky  was  windless  and  slightly  overclouded,  so 
that  the  stars  burned  as  if  through  frosted  glass,  and 
we  were  in  the  dark  of  the  moon.    Then  suddenly 


128  UP  AND  DOWN 

from  the  sleeping  woods  arose  an  inexplicable 
clamour  of  pheasant's  cries;  the  place  was  more 
resonant  with  them  than  at  the  hour  when  they 
retired  to  roost.  Every  moment  fresh  crowings  were 
added  to  the  tumult.  I  have  never  heard  so  strange 
an  alarum.  It  did  not  lie  down  again,  but  went  on 
and  on.  Then  presently  through  it,  faintly  at  first, 
but  with  growing  distinctness,  came  a  birring  rhyth- 
mical beat,  heavy  and  sonorous.  It  came  beyond 
doubt  from  the  air,  not  from  the  land,  and  was  far 
more  solid,  more  heavy  in  tone,  than  any  aeroplanes 
I  had  ever  heard.  Then  my  friend  pointed, 
''Look!"  he  said.  There,  a  little  to  the  east,  a  black 
shape,  long  and  cylindrical,  sped  across  the  greyness 
of  the  shrouded  sky,  moving  very  rapidly  westward. 
Soon  it  was  over  our  heads;  before  long  it  had  passed 
into  indistinctness  again.  But  long  after  its  beat 
had  become  inaudible  to  our  ears,  the  screams  of  the 
pheasants  continued,  as  they  yelled  at  the  murderer 
on  the  way  to  the  scene  of  his  crime. 

For  half  an  hour  after  that  some  stir  of  uneasiness 
went  on  in  the  woods;  the  furred  and  feathered 
creatures  were  aware,  by  some  sixth  sense,  that  there 
ivas  danger  in  the  air.  Then  muffled  and  distant 
came  the  noise  of  explosions  and  the  uneasiness  of 
the  woodland  grew  to  panic  again,  with  rustlings  in 
the  brushwood  of  hares  seeking  cover,  and  the  cries 
of  birds  seeking  each  other,  and  asking  what  was 
this  terror  by  night.  Presently  afterwards  the  beat 
of  the  propellers  was  again  audible  to  human  ears, 
and  the  Zeppelin  passed  over  us  once  more,  flying 


SEPTEMBER,  1915  129 

invisible  at  a  great  height,  going  eastwards  again. 
It  was  moving  much  faster  now,  for  its  deadly  work 
was  over,  and,  flushed  with  its  triumph,  it  was  bear- 
ing home  the  news  of  its  glorious  exploit.  Those 
intrepid  crusaders,  Lohengrins  of  the  air,  had  taken 
their  toll  of  smashed  cottages,  slain  children  and 
murdered  mothers,  and  the  anointed  of  the  Lord 
next  morning,  hearing  of  their  great  valour  above  a 
small  Norfolk  hamlet,  would  congratulate  them  on 
their  glorious  exploit  and  decorate  them  with  iron 
crosses  to  mark  his  shameful  approval  of  their  deed. 

London  at  night  has  become  a  dim  Joseph^s  coat 
of  many  colours.  The  authorities  are  experimenting 
in  broken  rainbows  for  the  sake  of  our  safety  from 
above,  and  for  our  vastly  increased  peril  on  the 
ground.  Instead  of  the  great  white  flame  of  elec- 
tric lights,  and  the  hot  orange  of  the  gas,  we  have  a 
hundred  hues  of  veiled  colour.  What  exactly  all  the 
decrees  are  which  produce  these  rainbows,  I  do  not 
know;  but  the  effect,  particularly  on  a  wet  night 
when  the  colours  are  reflected  on  wet  wood  pave- 
ments and  asphalte,  is  perfectly  charming,  and  we 
hope  that,  in  compensation  for  the  multiplied 
dangers  of  the  streets,  we  shall  be  immune  from  the 
flames  and  fumes  of  incendiary  and  asphyxiating 
shells.  The  prudent  householder — I  am  afraid  I  am 
not  one — has  had  a  good  deal  of  pleasant  occupation 
in  fitting  up  his  cellar  as  a  place  to  flee  unto  when  we 
are  threatened  with  Zeppelins,  and  one  night, 
shortly  after  my  return,  I  had  the  pleasure  of  in- 


130  UP  AND  DOWN 

specting  one  of  these.  It  lay  deep  in  the  bowels  of 
the  earth,  and  if  the  absence  of  air  would  not  as- 
phyxiate you,  I  am  sure  its  refugees  need  fear  no 
other  cause  of  suffocation.  There  were  several  deck- 
chairs,  and  at  a  slightly  withdrawn  distance  a 
serviceable  wooden  form  on  which  the  servants 
would  sit,  while  the  bombardment  was  going  on,  in 
a  respectful  row.  There  was  a  spirit-lamp  on  which 
to  make  tea,  a  tin  of  highly  nutritious  biscuits,  and 
a  variety  of  books  to  read  by  the  light  of  electric 
torches.  Upstairs  the  same  thoroughness  prevailed. 
Nightly,  on  retiring  to  bed,  the  lady  of  the  house 
had  on  a  table  close  at  hand  a  bag  containing  the 
most  valuable  of  her  jewellery,  and  a  becoming 
dressing-gown  much  padded.  Her  husband's  Zeppe- 
lin suit,  the  sort  of  suit  you  might  expect  to  find  in 
opulent  Esquimaux  houses,  lay  on  another  chair, 
and  outside  in  the  hall  was  a  large  washing  basin 
filled  with  some  kind  of  soda-solution,  and  on  the  rim 
of  it,  hung  like  glasses  on  the  top  of  a  punch-bowl, 
were  arranged  half  a  dozen  amazing  masks,  goggle- 
eyed  and  cotton-wooled,  which,  on  the  first  sign  of 
an  asphyxiating  bomb,  would  be  dipped  in  the  solu- 
tion of  soda  and  tied  over  the  face.  To  prevent 
against  incendiary  bombs  there  was  a  pail  of  sand 
and  a  pail  of  water  at  every  comer,  while  below  the 
cellar  beckoned  a  welconie  in  case  of  explosions. 
Given  a  moment  for  preparation,  this  house  was  a 
fortress  against  which  Zeppelins  might  furiously 
rage  together  without  hurting  anybody.  Whether 
they  sought  to  suffocate  or  to  burn,  or  to  blow  to 


SEPTEMBER,  1915  131 

atoms,  this  thoughtful  householder  was  prepared  for 
any  of  their  nasty  tricks. 

All  this  was  perfectly  entrancing  to  my  flippant 
mind,  and  after  dinner,  when  the  servants  had 
washed  up,  we  had,  at  my  particular  request,  a  re- 
hearsal of  the  Zeppelin  game  to  see  how  it  all 
worked.  The  servants  and  my  host  and  hostess  re- 
tired to  their  respective  bedrooms,  and  we  put  out  all 
the  lights.  As  guest,  I  had  no  duty  assigned  to  me, 
I  was  just  going  to  be  a  passenger  in  the  Ark  of 
safety,  so  I  remained  in  the  hall.  When  I  judged 
I  had  given  them  enough  time  to  lie  fairly  down  on 
their  beds,  I  sounded  the  gong  with  great  vigour, 
which  denoted  that  a  Zeppelin  had  begun  dropping 
bombs  in  the  neighbourhood.  Then  the  house  re- 
sponded splendidly:  in  an  incredibly  short  space  of 
time  my  hostess  came  out  of  her  room,  with  the  bag 
containing  the  regalia  in  her  hand,  and  her  beautiful 
padded  dressing-gown  on;  my  host  came  from  his 
with  the  Esquimaux  suit  over  his  dress-clothes — 
looking  precisely  like  Tweedledum  arrayed  for  bat- 
tle— and  the  servants,  with  shrill  giggles,  waited 
near  the  basin  of  soda-solution.  Then  we  all  put  on 
masks  (there  was  one  to  spare,  which  was  given  me), 
and,  omitting  the  ceremony  of  dipping  them  in  the 
soda,  my  host  caught  up  the  basin,  and  we  all 
trooped  downstairs  into  the  cellar.  The  servants 
plumped  themselves  down  on  the  bench,  we  sat  in 
the  deck-chairs,  and  there  we  all  were.  The  time 
from  the  sounding  of  the  gong  to  the  moment  when 
the  cellar  door  was  banged,  and  we  were  safe  from 


132  UP  AISTD  DOWN 

explosives  and  asphyxiating  bombs,  was  just  three 
minutes  and  five  seconds.  The  only  thing  unpro- 
vided for  was  the  event  of  the  Zeppelin  dropping 
incendiary  bombs  after  we  had  all  gone  into  the  Ark, 
for  in  that  case  the  house  would  be  burned  above  us, 
and  we  should  be  slowly  roasted.  But  that  cruel 
contingency  we  settled  to  disregard.  It  would  be 
the  kind  of  bad  luck  against  which  it  is  hopeless  to 
take  precautions.  So  then,  as  it  was  a  hot  evening, 
my  host  took  off  his  Zeppelin  suit  again,  and  after 
testing  the  nutritive  biscuits,  which  were  quite  deli- 
cious, we  went  upstairs  again  with  shouts  of  laughter. 
No  doubt  their  provision  had  a  solid  base  of  reason, 
for  it  certainly  would  be  very  annoying  to  be  as- 
phyxiated in  your  room,  when  such  simple  arrange- 
ments as  these  would  have  resulted  in  your  having 
a  cup  of  tea  in  the  comfortable  cellar  instead;  but 
there  was  this  added  bonus  of  sport  about  it  all.  It 
was  the  greatest  fun. 

This  house  where  I  had  been  dining  was  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  Bedford  Square,  and  I  left  about 
half-past  ten,  with  the  intention  of  walking  as  far 
as  Charing  Cross,  and  there  embarking  on  the  under- 
ground. I  had  hardly  gone  a  hundred  yards  from 
the  house,  when  on  the  quiet  night  there  came  a 
report  so  appalling  that  it  seemed  like  some  catas- 
trophic noise  heard  in  a  dream.  It  was  quite  close 
to  me,  somewhere  on  the  left,  and  I  ran  as  hard  as 
I  could  round  the  comer  of  a  block  of  houses  to  be 
able  to  look  eastwards,  for  there  was  no  doubt  in  my 
mind  that  a  Zeppelin,  nearly  overhead,  had  dropped 


SEPTEMBER,  1915  133 

a  bomb.  Before  I  got  to  the  corner  there  was  an- 
other report  as  loud  as  the  first,  and,  looking  up,  I 
saw  that  the  searchlights,  like  pencils  of  light,  were 
madly  scribbling  about  over  the  sky.  Suddenly  one 
caught  the  Zeppelin,  then  another,  and  next  moment 
it  was  in  the  meeting  focus  of  half  a  dozen  of  them, 
hanging  high  above  my  head,  serene  and  gilded  with 
the  rays  of  light,  a  fairy  creation  of  the  air.  Then 
began  the  sound  of  guns,  one  shell  exploded  in  front 
of  it,  another  far  below  it.  Disregarding  all  the 
regulations  for  their  protection,  people  ran  out  of 
their  houses,  and,  like  me,  stood  gaping  up  at  it,  for 
the  excitement  of  it  was  irresistible.  I  noticed  that 
one  man  near  me  put  up  the  collar  of  his  coat  when- 
ever there  was  a  loud  explosion,  just  as  if  a  slight 
shower  was  falling,  and  then  quite  gravely  and 
seriously  put  it  down  again.  Others  stepped  into 
porches,  or  flattened  themselves  against  the  walls, 
but  none  did  as  they  were  told  by  the  police  regula- 
tions. A  special  constable  was  there  too,  who 
should  have  herded  us  all  into  cover;  instead,  he 
stared  with  the  rest,  and  put  the  lighted  end  of  his 
cigarette  into  his  mouth.  For,  indeed,  this  was  not 
a  thing  you  could  see  every  day,  a  Zeppelin  hanging 
above  you,  and  the  shells  from  guns  in  London  ex- 
ploding round  it.  It  fired  the  imagination;  here 
was  the  Real  Thing,  which  we  had  been  reading 
about  for  a  year  and  never  seen.  The  air  had  been 
invaded  by  the  enemy,  and  guns  in  the  heart  of  the 
securest  city  in  the  world  were  belching  shells  at  it. 
Then  came  the  end  of  this  amazing  sight:  a  shell 


134  UP  AND  DOWN 

burst  close  to  that  serene  swimmer,  and  it  stuck  its 
nose  in  the  air,  and  ascending  with  extraordinary 
speed,  like  a  bubble  going  upwards  through  water, 
got  out  of  the  focus  of  searchlights  and  disappeared. 

By  this  time  the  eastern  horizon  was  glowing  with 
a  light  that  grew  steadily  more  vivid.  The  airship 
had  dropped  incendiary  bombs  in  the  City,  and  fire- 
engines  were  racing  along  Oxford  Street,  with  gleam 
of  helmets,  clanging  of  bells  and  hoarse  shouts  from 
the  firemen.  But  there  was  no  getting  near  the  seat 
of  the  fire,  for  a  cordon  of  police  had  closed  all  streets 
near  it,  and  I  walked  homewards  along  the  Embank- 
ment, with  eyes  fixed  on  the  sky,  and  cannoning  into 
other  passengers,  because  I  did  not  look  where  I  was 
going,  as  you  may  see  ladies  doing  when  they  gaze 
in  a  hypnotized  manner  into  hat-shops,  as  they  walk 
along  the  street. 

Apart  from  the  actual  thrill  of  the  adventure, 
there  was  a  most  interesting  psychological  point, 
which  I  considered  as  I  went  homewards.  There 
were  we,  the  crowd  in  the  street,  just  average  folk, 
just  average  cowards  in  the  face  of  danger,  and  not 
one,  as  far  as  I  could  see,  gave  a  single  thought  to 
ihe  risk  of  dropped  bombs  or  falling  pieces  of  shrap- 
nel. We  might  any  or  all  of  us  be  wiped  out  next 
moment,  but  we  didn't  care,  not  in  the  least  because 
we  were  brave,  but  because  the  interest  of  what  was 
happening  utterly  extinguished  any  other  feeling. 
Probably  the  majority  of  the  crowd  had  passed 
gloomy  and  uncomfortable  moments  imagining  that 
very    situation,    namely,    of   having   a   murderous 


SEPTEMBER,  1915  135 

Zeppelin  just  above  them;  but  when  once  the 
murderous  Zeppelin  was  there,  they  all  forgot  it  was 
murderous,  and  were  merely  interested  in  the  real 
live  Zeppelin.  Just  in  the  same  way,  in  minute 
matters,  we  all  find  that  ringing  the  dentist's  bell  is 
about  the  worst  part  of  the  tiresome  business. 

The  sequel  as  concerns  the  house  in  which  I  had 
dined  so  few  hours  before  delighted  me  when  I  was 
told  it  next  day.  I  suppose  the  realistic  character 
of  our  rehearsal  preyed  on  the  servants'  minds,  for 
they  groped  their  way  downstairs  to  the  cellar  in  the 
dark,  and  none  thought  to  turn  on  the  electric  light. 
My  hostess  picked  up  her  jewel-case  and  groped 
her  way  after  them,  forgetting  about  the  soda-solu- 
tion and  the  masks,  and  my  host  threw  open  the 
window  and  gazed  ecstatically  at  the  Zeppelin  till 
it  vanished.  Then  he  turned  on  the  lights  and 
fetched  his  household  back  from  the  cellar,  since  the 
raid  was  over.  ...  It  is  but  another  instance  of 
how,  when  faced  with  a  situation,  we  diverge  from 
the  lines  of  conduct  we  have  so  carefully  laid  down 
for  ourselves.  I  once  knew  a  family  that  practised 
fire-drill  very  industriously  in  case  that  one  day 
there  might  be  an  outbreak  in  the  house.  There 
were  patent  extinguishers  to  put  it  out  with,  and 
ropes  to  let  yourself  out  of  window  all  over  the  place, 
and  everyone  knew  exactly  what  he  was  to  do. 
Then  the  opportunity  so  long  expected  came,  and  a 
serious  outbreak  occurred.  On  which  the  owner  for- 
got everything  that  he  had  learned  himself  and 
taught  everybody  else,  and  after  throwing  a  quan- 


136  UP  AND  DOWN 

tity  of  his  valuable  Oriental  china  on  to  the  stone 
terrace,  he  performed  prodigies  of  single-handed 
valour  in  saving  a  very  old  piano  which  nobody 
wanted  at  all.  ...  (I  think  this  pathetic  story  con- 
tradicts my  theory  about  the  calmness  of  the  crowd 
on  the  Zeppelin  night,  but  who  wants  to  be  con- 
sistent?) 

I  had  arrived  this  September  at  a  break  in  the 
lease  of  my  house,  and  six  months  before  (see  page 
two  of  the  lease  in  question)  I  had  given  notice  to 
the  owner  in  writing  that  I  should  evacuate.  Con- 
sequently for  the  last  few  months  I  had  been  an 
assiduous  frequenter  of  house-agents'  ofi&ces,  and 
the  God  of  addition  sums  alone  knows  how  many 
houses  I  had  seen  over  from  garret  to  basement. 
The  extraordinary  thing  about  all  these  was  that 
they  were  all  exceptional  bargains,  such  as  the  agent 
had  never  before  known,  and  that  in  almost  every 
case  another  gentleman  was  in  negotiation  for  them. 
In  spite  of  that,  however,  if  I  chose  at  once  and 
firmly  to  offer  the  price  asked,  there  was  a  strong 
probabihty  of  my  securing  one  of  these  marvellous 
bargains,  and  thwarting  the  ambitions  of  the  other 
gentleman.  This  opportunity  to  thwart  the  other 
gentleman  was  certainly  an  appeal  to  the  more  vil- 
lainous side  of  human  nature,  and  often,  if  a  house 
seemed  to  me  the  sort  of  habitation  I  was  on  the 
look-out  for,  the  thought  of  the  other  gentleman  get- 
ting it  was  an  incentive  to  take  it  myself.  But 
Dever  before  did  I  realize  how  hopelessly  traditional 


SEPTEMBER,  1915  137 

is  that  section  of  the  human  race  which  designs  our 
houses  for  us.  The  type,  in  the  modest  species  of 
abode  I  was  looking  for,  never  varied.  There  was  a 
narrow  passage  inside  the  front  door,  with  a  dining- 
room  and  a  back  room  opening  out  of  it,  and  a  stair- 
case up  to  the  first  floor,  where  lay  two  sitting-rooms, 
invariably  knocked  into  one.  There  was  a  bath  on 
a  half-landing,  there  were  front  bedrooms  and  back 
bedrooms  higher  up,  all  exactly  alike,  and  for  a  long 
time  I  looked  in  vain  for  any  house  that  was  not 
precisely  like  any  other  house.  In  fact,  this  became 
a  sine  qua  non  with  me,  and  ceasing  to  care  whether 
I  thwarted  the  other  gentleman  or  not,  I  think  if  I 
had  found  a  house  where  the  bath-room  was  in  the 
basement,  or  there  was  no  staircase,  so  that  you  had 
to  go  upstairs  in  a  basket  with  a  rope,  I  should  have 
taken  it.  I  almost  despaired  of  finding  what  I 
wanted,  and  thought  of  revoking,  if  possible,  my 
notice  of  quitting,  for  in  my  present  house  there  is 
something  which  is  not  quite  like  other  houses,  for 
some  inspired  tenant  threw  down  the  wall  between 
the  dining-room  and  the  entrance  passage,  making 
a  sort  of  hall  of  it,  in  the  middle  of  which  I  dine. 
That  there  are  inconveniences  attaching  to  it  I  don't 
deny,  for  the  guest  sitting  nearest  the  front  door 
occasionally  jumps  out  of  his  skin  when  the  postman 
thunders  with  the  evening  post  close  by  his  ear;  but 
the  house  isn't  quite  like  other  houses  of  its  type, 
which  is  precisely  the  reason  why  ten  years  ago  I 
took  it. 
With   a  pocket   full   of   ^'orders   to  view,"   and 


138  UP  AND  DOWN 

plenty  of  shillings  for  the  patient  caretakers  who 
mournfully  conducted  me  over  their  charge,  I  used 
on  most  days  to  set  out  on  these  explorations  after 
lunch,  returning  discouraged  at  tea-time.  I  could 
not  see  myself  in  any  of  the  houses  I  saw,  or  imagine 
going  to  sleep  in  any  of  those  front  bedrooms,  or 
spending  the  evening  in  the  back-room  behind  the 
dining-room,  or  in  the  two  sitting-rooms  knocked 
into  one.  But  then,  though  it  lingered  long,  came 
the  Mecca  of  my  quest.  Even  at  the  front  door  I 
had  some  premonition  of  success,  for  the  knocker 
was  not  like  other  ^knockers,  and  when  the  door 
opened,  I  saw,  with  a  beating  heart,  that  the  stair- 
case was  not  like  other  staircases.  Some  four  feet 
from  the  ground  it  turned  at  right  angles  towards 
where  the  dreadful  little  back  room  should  be.  It 
couldn't  go  into  the  door  of  the  little  back  room,  or 
if  it  did,  it  would  be  very  odd.  You  would  have  to 
pass  through  the  dining-room  in  order  to  get  to  the 
bottom  of  the  stiraaircase.  .  .  .  Then  advancing  I 
saw:  the  staircase  turned  into  a  little  hall  (origi- 
nally, no  doubt,  the  dreadful  little  back  room).  Be- 
yond lay  a  broad  passage,  and  the  dining-room  was 
built  out  at  the  end.  Through  the  open  door  of  it 
I  saw  the  windows  looking  out,  not  on  to  a  street 
at  all,  but  on  to  full-foliaged  trees  that  grew  in  a 
disused  graveyard.  Between  it  and  the  house  ran  a 
way  for  foot-passengers  only.  Something  in  my 
brain  exulted,  crying  out  ^This  is  it!''  and  simultane- 
ously I  felt  a  soft  stroking  on  my  shin.  Looking 
down  I  saw  a  grave  black  cat  rubbing  against  me. 


SEPTEMBER,  1915  139 

Was  there  ever  such  an  omen?  I  had  already  set- 
tled in  my  mind  that  this  must  be  the  house  in- 
tended for  me  (it  was),  and  here  was  the  bringer  of 
good  luck  congratulating  me  on  my  discovery. 

I  made  the  usual  grand  tour,  but  in  how  different 
a  mood,  and  as  I  mounted  my  spirits  rose  ever  higher. 
In  front  was  a  square  (so-called  though  it  was  an 
oblong)  closed  at  the  top  end  where  my  house  was 
situated,  so  that  no  traffic  came  through  it,  and  at 
the  back  was  this  big  graveyard,  with  its  church, 
and  the  dome  of  the  Brompton  Oratory  (conceal- 
ment is  useless)  rising  over  its  shoulder  like  the 
Salute  at  Venice.  Literally  not  a  house  was  in 
sight;  there  was  but  the  faintest  sound  of  traffic 
from  the  Brompton  Road;  I  might  have  been  a 
country  parson  in  his  vicarage.  I  went  straight  to 
the  house-agent's,  made  an  offer,  and  didn't  care  one 
atom  whether  I  thwarted  anybody  or  not.  Natu- 
rally I  hoped  I  did,  but  it  made  no  difference. 

A  little  genteel  chaffering  ensued,  for  I  felt  so 
certain  that  I  was  going  to  live  in  that  house,  that 
I  felt  I  was  running  no  risks,  and  in  a  week  it  was 
mine,  with  possession  at  this  quarter-day  of  Sep- 
tember. Then  having  got  my  desire,  I  began  to 
feel  regretful  abofit  the  house  I  was  leaving.  I  had 
spent  ten  jolly  years  in  it,  and  now  for  the  first  time 
I  became  aware  how  I  had  taken  root  there,  how  our 
tendrils,  those  of  the  house  and  of  me,  had  got  inter- 
twined. The  roots  consisted  of  all  kinds  of  memo- 
ries, some  sad,  some  pleasant,  some  ludicrous,  but 
all  dear.    I  was  digging  myself  up  like  a  plant,  and 


140  UP  AND  DOWN 

these  fibres  had  to  be  disentangled,  for  I  could  not 
bear  to  break  them.  For  though  memories  are 
immaterial  things,  they  knit  themselves  into  rooms 
or  gardens,  the  scenes  where  they  were  laid,  and 
those  scenes  become  part  of  them  and  they  of  those 
scenes.  Just  as  a  house  where  some  deed  of  horror 
has  been  done  retains  for  sensitives  some  impression 
of  it,  and  we  say  the  house  is  haunted,  so  even  for 
those  who  are  not  sensitives  in  this  psychical  sense 
the  rooms  they  have  lived  in,  where  there  has  been 
the  talk  and  laughter  of  those  they  have  loved,  and 
maybe  lost,  have  got  knit  into  them,  and  must  be 
treated  tenderly  if  parting  comes.  And  I  imagined, 
when  I  came  home  after  definitely  settling  to  leave 
this  month,  that  the  house  knew  about  it,  and  looked 
at  me  with  silent  reproach.  For  we  had  suited  each 
other  very  well,  we  had  been  very  friendly  and 
happy  together,  and  now  I  was  deserting  the  home 
in  the  making  of  which  we  had  both  been  ingredi- 
ents, and  the  spirit  of  the  house  I  was  betraying  was 
full  of  mute  appeal.  It  did  not  want  to  be  left 
alone,  or,  still  worse,  to  be  mated  with  people  who 
did  not  suit  it.  But  what  could  I  do?  I  was  going 
away;  there  was  no  doubt  about  that,  and  I  could 
hardly  give  it  a  present  of  fresh  paint  or  paper  some 
of  its  rooms  to  please  it.  That  would  have  been 
ridiculous.  But  I  would  leave  it  all  the  bulbs  I  had 
planted  year  by  year  in  the  garden.  There  would 
be  a  great  show  of  them  next  spring.  ...  Poor  dear 
little  old  house! 


SEPTEMBER,  1915  141 

I  had  got  possession  of  my  new  house  "as  from" 
(this  is  legal  phraseology,  and  means  "on'O  the  first 
of  September,  when  the  front  door-key  was  given 
me;  and  thus  I  had  four  weeks  of  decoration,  and 
took  a  header  into  the  delightful  sea  of  paints  and 
papers  and  distempers.  The  most  altruistic  of 
friends,  whom  I  will  call  Kino  (which  has  something 
to  do  with  his  name  but  not  much),  vowed  himself 
to  me  for  the  whole  of  that  month,  to  give  advice 
in  the  matter  of  colours,  and  not  to  mind  if  I  re- 
jected it,  to  come  backwards  and  forwards  for  ever 
and  ever  from  one  house  to  the  other,  with  a  pencil,  a 
memorandum-book  and  a  yard  measure  incessantly 
in  his  pocket.  For  when  you  go  into  a  new  house  you 
have  to  measure  all  that  you  possess  to  see  if  it  fits. 
It  never  does,  but  you  can't  help  believing  it  is  going 
to.  You  have  to  measure  curtains  and  curtain  rods 
to  see  where  they  will  go  (the  idea  of  leaving  a 
lovely  brass  curtain  rod  behind  was  an  idea  before 
which  my  happiness  shrivelled  like  a  parched 
scroll) ;  you  have  to  measure  brass  stair-rods  and 
count  them;  you  have  to  measure  blinds,  and  car- 
pets and  rugs  and  grand  pianos  and  beds  and  tables 
and  cupboards.  Then  with  the  dimensions  written 
down  in  Kino's  memorandum-book,  we  hurried 
across  to  the  new  house,  and  measured  the  heights  of 
rooms  by  tying  the  tape  on  to  the  end  of  a  walking- 
stick,  and  the  spaces  between  the  eyelets  on  stairs 
which  in  favourable  circumstances  retain  the  carpet 
rods  in  place,  the  widths  of  recesses,  comparing 
them  with  the  measurements  of  the  articles  we 


142  UP  AND  DOWN 

hoped  to  establish  there.  Also  with  sinkings  of  the 
heart  I  surreptitiously  took  the  size  of  an  awkward 
angle  of  the  staircase  (up  which  my  grand  piano 
must  pass),  and  came  to  the  conclusion  that  it 
wouldn't.  I  said  nothing  about  it  to  Kino,  because 
it  is  no  use  to  anticipate  trouble.  But  later  in  the 
day,  when  we  were  back  in  Oakley  Street  again,  I 
came  unexpectedly  into  the  drawing-room,  and 
caught  him  measuring  the  piano.  Of  course  I  pre- 
tended not  to  see. 

The  previous  tenant  of  the  new  house  had  taken 
away  most  of  the  fixtures,  but  was  willing  to  leave 
certain  degraded  blinds,  which  on  my  side  I  did  not 
want.  On  the  other  hand,  I  had  not  long  ago  got 
a  quantity  of  new  blinds  for  my  old  house,  which 
I  should  have  liked  to  use  if  possible,  and  the  ques- 
tion of  blinds  became  a  night-mare.  I  had  before 
now  deplored  the  awful  uniformity  of  architects  in 
matters  of  building;  now  I  raged  over  their  amazing 
irregularities  with  regard  to  windows.  In  an  insane 
anxiety  for  originality,  they  seemed  to  make  every 
window  of  a  different  size;  my  drawing-room  blinds 
were  three  inches  too  narrow  for  my  new  drawing- 
room,  and  two  inches  too  broad  for  the  front  bed- 
room. Then  Kino  would  have  a  marvellous  inspira- 
tion, and,  running  downstairs,  discovered  that  the 
hall  window  was  of  precisely  the  same  width  as  the 
drawing-room  windows  in  the  old  house,  so  that  a 
home  was  found  for  one  of  the  blinds.  So  he 
measured  all  the  other  windows  in  the  new  house,  to 
find   a  home   for   the   other   drawing-room   blind. 


SEPTEMBER,  1915  143 

Then  we  lost  the  measurements  of  the  windows  in 
my  old  bedroom,  and  I  went  back  to  Oakley  Street, 
to  measure  these  again  and  telephone  the  dimen- 
sions to  him.  On  going  to  the  telephone  "the  inter- 
mittent buzzing  sound"  awaited  me,  and  after  agi- 
tating discussions  between  me  and  the  exchange,  I 
found  that  Kino  was  simultaneously  ringing  me  up 
to  say  he  had  found  the  list  in  question,  and  by  a 
wonderful  stroke  of  good  luck  my  bedroom  blinds 
fitted  the  back  bedroom  on  the  second  floor.  There 
was  only  one  window  there,  so  we  had  left  over  (at 
present)  one  drawing-room  blind  and  one  bedroom 
blind.  .  .  .  That  night  I  dreamed  that  Kino  was 
dead,  and  that  I,  as  undertaker,  was  trying  to  fit  a 
bedroom  blind  on  to  him  as  a  shroud ;  but  his  feet, 
shod  in  Wellington  boots,  protruded,  and  I  cut  a 
piece  off  the  dining-room  blind  to  cover  them  up. 

But  through  all  these  disturbances  the  work  of 
painting  and  distempering  went  swiftly  on,  and  the 
house  began  to  gleam  with  the  colours  I  loved.  For 
a  mottled  wall-paper  in  the  hall  and  passage  which 
resembled  brawn  that  had  seen  its  best  days,  there 
shone  a  blue  in  which  there  met  the  dark  velvet  of 
the  starry  sky  and  the  flare  of  the  Italian  noon. 
Black  woodwork  with  panels  of  white  framed  the 
window,  and  of  black  and  white  was  the  staircase;  a 
yellow  ceiling  made  sunshine  in  the  dining-room. 
The  drawing-room  was  fawn-grey,  and  on  the  black 
floor  would  gleam  the  sober  sunsets  of  Bokhara; 
even  blinds  that  would  not  fit  and  brass  curtain-rods 
that  there  was  no  use  for  had,  so  to  speak,  a  silver- 


144  UP  AND  DOWN 

lining.  Marvellous  to  relate,  there  seemed  every 
prospect  of  the  work  being  finished  by  the  twenty- 
ninth  of  the  month,  and  with  an  optimism  pathet- 
ically misplaced,  I  supposed  that  it  was  the  simplest 
thing  in  the  world  to  put  the  furniture  of  a  small 
house  into  a  larger  one.  I  knew  exactly  where 
everything  was  to  go;  what  could  be  simpler  than 
with  a  smiling  face  to  indicate  to  the  workmen  the 
position  of  each  article  as  it  emerged  from  the  van? 
It  is  true  that  the  thought  of  the  grand  piano  still 
occasionally  croaked  raven-like  in  my  mind,  but  I 
pretended,  like  Romeo,  that  it  was  only  the  night- 
ingale. 

I  suppose  everybody,  however  lightly  enchained 
to  possessions,  has  some  few  objects  of  art  (or  other- 
wise) to  which  he  is  profoundly  attached.  In  my 
case  there  were  certain  wreaths  and  festoons  of 
gilded  wood-carving  by  Kent,  and  before  the  actual 
move  took  place.  Kino  and  I  had  a  halcyon  day  in 
fixing  these  up  to  the  walls  of  the  blue  hall,  where 
they  would  be  safe  from  the  danger  of  having  ward- 
robes and  other  trifles  dumped  down  on  them.  So 
on  a  certain  Sunday  we  set  off  from  Oakley  Street 
in  a  taxicab  piled  high  with  these  treasures  and  with 
hammer  and  nails,  and  with  a  bottle  of  wine,  sand- 
wiches of  toast  and  chicken,  apples  and  two  kitchen 
chairs.  Disembarking  with  care,  we  ate  the  first 
meal  in  the  house,  and  did  not  neglect  a  most  impor- 
tant ceremony,  fhat  of  making  friends  with  the 
Penates,  or  gods  of  the  home,  who,  like  my  strega 
in  Alatri  and  the  fairies  of  Midsummer  Night's 


SEPTEMBER,  1915  145 

Dream,  police  the  passages  when  all  are  asleep  and 
drive  far  from  the  house  all  doubtful  presences. 
There  on  the  earth  we  made  burnt  offering  of  the 
crumbs  of  chicken  sandwiches  and  apple-rind,  build- 
ing an  oven  of  the  paper  in  which  our  lunch  was 
wrapped,  and  at  the  end  pouring  on  the  ashes  a 
libation  from  the  bottle  of  wine.  All  was  right 
that  day;  the  nails  went  smoothly  home  into  the 
walls,  we  did  not  hammer  our  fingers,  and  the  gold 
wreaths  arranged  themselves  as  by  magic. 

The  great  manoeuvre  began  next  day,  when  at  an 
early  hour  the  vans  arrived  to  begin  taking  my  fur- 
niture. That  day  they  moved  dispensable  things, 
leaving  the  apparatus  of  bedrooms,  which  was  to  be 
transferred  on  the  morrow,  at  the  close  of  which  I 
was  to  sleep  in  the  new  house.  Dining-room  furni- 
ture went  on  the  first  day,  and  when  I  came  back 
that  evening  to  sleep  in  the  old  house  for  the  last 
time,  I  found  it  dishevelled  and  mournful.  Canvas- 
packing  strewed  the  floor,  pictures  were  gone,  and  on 
the  walls  where  they  had  hung  were  squares  and 
oblongs  of  unfaded  paper.  The  beauty  and  the 
amenity  of  the  house  were  departed;  I  felt  as  if  I 
had  been  stripping  the  robes  off  it,  and  its  spirit 
shivering  and  in  rags  went  silently  with  me  as  I 
visited  the  denuded  rooms,  with  eyes  of  silent  re- 
proach. I  was  taking  away  from  it  all  that  it  had 
reckoned  as  its  own ;  to-morrow  I,  too,  should  desert 
it,  and  it  would  stand  lonely  and  companionless. 
Never  in  those  ten  years  had  it  been  so  pleasant  to 
live  with  as  in  that  last  week;  it  was  as  if  it  were 


146  UP  AND  DOWN 

putting  forth  shy  advances,  making  itself  so  kind 
and  agreeable,  in  order  to  detain  the  tenants  with 
whom  it  had  passed  such  happy  years.  One  by  one 
I  turned  out  the  lights,  and  its  spirit  followed  me  up 
to  my  bedroom.  But  to-night  it  would  not  come 
in,  and  when  I  entered  the  sense  of  home  was  gone 
from  my  room. 

All  next  day  the  chaos  in  the  new  house  grew  more 
and  more  abysmal  as  the  vans  were  unloaded.  The 
plan  of  putting  everything  instantly  and  firmly  into 
its  place  failed  to  come  off;  for  how  could  you  put 
anything  firmly  or  otherwise  into  the  dining-room 
when  for  two  hours  the  refrigerator  blocked  access 
to  it?  Meantime  books  were  stacked  on  the  floor, 
layers  of  pictures  leaned  against  the  walls;  the  hall 
got  packed  with  tables  and  piles  of  curtains,  and 
finally,  about  five  of  the  afternoon,  arrived  the  grand 
piano.  The  foreman  gave  but  one  glance  at  the 
staircase,  and  declared  that  it  was  quite  impossible 
for  it  to  go  up,  and  pending  some  fresh  plan  for  its 
ascension,  it  must  needs  stop  in  the  hall  too,  where 
it  stood  on  its  side  like  the  coffin  of  some  enormous 
skate.  By  making  yourself  tall  and  thin  you  could 
just  get  by  it. 

Trouble  increased;  soon  after  nightfall  a  police- 
man rang  at  the  door  to  tell  me  I  had  an  unshaded 
light  in  a  front  room.  So  I  had,  and,  abjectly 
apologizing,  I  explained  the  circumstance  and 
quenched  the  light.  Hardly  had  he  gone,  when  an- 
other came  and  said  I  had  a  very  bright  light  in  a 


SEPTEMBER,  1915  147 

back  room.  That  seemed  to  be  true  also,  and  since 
there  were  neither  blinds  nor  curtains  in  that  room, 
where  I  was  trying  to  produce  some  semblance  of 
order,  my  labours  there  must  be  abandoned.  But 
the  more  we  tidied,  the  more  we  attempted  to  put 
pieces  of  furniture  into  their  places,  the  worse  grew 
the  confusion,  and  the  more  the  floors  got  carpeted 
with  china  and  pictures  and  books.  It  was  as  when 
you  eat  an  artichoke,  and,  behold,  the  more  you  eat, 
the  higher  on  your  plate  rises  the  debris. 

About  midnight  Kino  went  home;  the  servants 
had  gone  to  bed,  and  I  was  alone  in  this  nightmare 
of  unutterable  confusion.  Till  one  I  toiled  on,  won- 
dering why  I  had  ever  left  the  old  house,  where  the 
spirit  of  home  was  now  left  lonely.  No  spirit  of 
home  had  arrived  here  yet,  and  I  did  not  wonder. 
But  just  before  I  went  to  bed  I  visited  the  kitchen 
to  see  how  they  had  been  getting  on  downstairs,  and 
for  a  moment  hope  gleamed  on  the  horizon.  For 
sitting  in  the  middle  of  the  best  dinner-service, 
which  was  on  the  floor,  was  Cyrus,  my  blue  Persian 
cat,  purring  loudly.  His  topaz  eye  gleamed,  and  he 
rose  up,  clawing  at  the  hay  as  I  entered.  He  liked 
the  new  house;  he  thought  it  would  suit  him,  and 
came  upstairs  with  me,  arching  his  back  and  rubbing 
himself  against  the  corners. 


OCTOBER,  1915 

For  two  days  the  grand  piano  remained  on  its  side 
at  the  bottom  of  the  stairs,  while  furniture  choked 
and  eddied  round  it,  as  when  a  drain  is  stopped  up 
and  the  water  cannot  flow  away.  It  really  seemed 
that  it  would  stop  there  for  ever,  and  that  the  only 
chance  of  playing  it  again  involved  being  strapped 
into  a  chair,  and  laid  sideways  on  the  floor.  Even- 
tually the  foreman  of  the  removal  company  kindly 
promised  to  come  back  next  morning,  take  out  the 
drawing-room  window,  and  sling  the  creature  in. 
This  would  require  a  regiment  of  men,  and  the  sort 
of  tackle  with  which  thirteen-inch  guns  are  lifted 
into  a  ship.  He  hoped  (he  could  go  no  further  than 
that)  that  the  stone  window  ledge  would  stand  the 
strain;  I  hoped  so  too.  My  wits,  I  suppose,  were 
sharpened  by  this  hideous  prospect,  and  I  tele- 
phoned to  the  firm  who  had  made  the  piano  to  send 
down  three  men  and  see  if  they  concurred  in  the 
impossibility  of  getting  the  piano  upstairs  except  via 
the  doubtful  window-ledge.  In  half  an  hour  they 
had  taken  it  up  the  staircase  without  touching  the 
banisters  or  scratching  the  wall. 

Magically,  as  by  the  waving  of  a  wand,  the  con- 
stipation on  the  ground-floor  was  relieved ;  it  was  as 
if  the  Fairy  Prince  (in  guise  of  three  sainted  piano- 

148 


OCTOBER,  1915  149 

movers)  had  restored  life  to  the  house.  The  tables 
and  chairs  danced  into  their  places ;  bookshelves  be- 
came peopled  with  volumes;  the  china  clattered 
nimbly  into  cupboards,  and  carpets  unrolled  them- 
selves on  the  stairs.  There  was  dawn  on  the  wreck, 
and  Kino  and  I  set  to  work  on  the  great  scheme  of 
black  and  white  floor  decoration  which  was  destined 
to  embellish  in  a  manner  unique  and  surprising  the 
whole  of  the  ground-floor. 

Linoleum  was  the  material  of  it,  an  apotheosis  of 
linoleum.  Round  the  walls  of  the  passages,  the 
hall,  the  front  room,  were  to  run  borders  of  black 
and  white,  with  panels  in  recesses,  enclosing  a 
chess-board  of  black-and  white  squares.  Roll  after 
roll  of  linoleum  arrived,  and  with  gravers  we  cut 
them  up,  and  tacked  down  the  borders  and  the 
panels  and  the  chess-board  with  that  admirable  and 
headless  species  of  nail  known  as  "little  brads." 
The  work  was  not  noiseless  like  the  building  of  the 
Temple  of  Solomon,  but  when  it  was  done,  my  visi- 
tors were  uideed  Queens  of  Sheba,  for  no  more  spirit 
was  left  in  them  when  on  their  blinded  eyes  there 
dawned  the  glories  of  the  floors  that  were  regular 
and  clean  as  marble  pavements,  and  kind  to  the 
tread.  No  professional  hand  was  permitted  to  assist 
in  these  orgies  of  decoration ;  two  inspired  amateurs 
did  it  all,  and  one  of  them  did  about  twenty  times 
as  much  as  the  other.  (The  reader  may  form  his  own 
conclusion  as  to  whether  modesty  or  the  low  motive 
of  seeking  credit  where  the  credit  belongs  to  another 
prompts  my  reticence  on  this  point.)     Then  there 


150  UP  AND  DOWN 

were  wonderful  things  to  be  done  with  paint  (and 
I  really  did  a  good  deal  of  that) ;  ugly  tiles  were' 
made  beautiful  with  shining  black,  that  most  deco- 
rative of  all  hues  when  properly  used,  and  in  one 
room  the  splendour  given  to  a  door  and  a  chimney- 
piece  put  Pompeii  in  its  proper  place  for  ever.  And 
all  the  time,  as  we  worked,  and  put  something  of 
human  personality  into  the  house,  the  spirit  of  home 
was  peeping  in  at  windows  shyly,  tentatively,  or  hid- 
ing behind  curtains,  or  going  softly  about  the  pleas- 
ant passages,  till  at  last  one  evening,  as  we  finished 
some  arrangement  of  books  in  the  front-room,  I  was 
conscious  'that  it  had  come  to  stay.  It  did  not  any 
longer  shrink  from  observation  or  withdraw  itself 
when  it  thought  I  got  a  glimpse  of  it.  It  stood 
boldly  out,  smiling  and  well  pleased,  and  next  day, 
when  I  woke  for  a  moment  in  the  hour  before  dawn, 
with  sparrow-twitters  in  the  trees  outside,  it  was  in 
my  room,  and  I  turned  over  contentedly  and  went 
to  sleep  again.  Was  it  that  the  disconsolate  ghost 
in  Oakley  Street  had  come  here,  transferring  itself 
from  the  empty  shell?  Had  it  followed,  like  a  de- 
serted cat,  the  familiar  furniture,  and  the  familiar 
denizens?  Or  had  a  new  spirit  of  home  been  bom? 
Certainly  the  conviction  that  the  house  had  found 
itself,  that  it  had  settled  down  to  an  incarnate  plane 
again  was  no  drowsy  fantasy  of  the  night;  for  in  the 
morning,  when  I  went  downstairs,  the  whole  aspect 
of  things  had  changed.  I  knew  I  was  chez  moi,  in- 
stead of  just  carrying  on  existence  in  some  borrowed 
lodging. 


OCTOBER,  1915  151 

That  morning  an  enormous  letter,  chiefly 
phonetic,  arrived  from  Seraphina.  It  was  difficult 
to  read,  because  when  Seraphina  wished  to  erase  a 
word,  she  had  evidently  smudged  her  finger  over 
the  wet  ink,  and  written  something  on  top  of  it.  At 
first  I  felt  as  bewildered  as  King  Belshazzar,  when 
on  the  wall  there  grew  the  inconjecturable  doom; 
but  since  I  had  no  Daniel  in  fee,  I  managed,  by  dint 
of  trying  again  and  again,  to  make  out  the  most  of 
her  message.  She  relapsed  sometimes  into  the  dia- 
lect of  Alatri,  but  chiefly  she  stuck  to  the  good  old 
plan,  recommended  by  Mr.  Roosevelt,  of  putting 
down  the  letters  like  which  the  word,  when  spoken, 
would  S9«und.  But  by  dint  of  saying  it  aloud,  I 
caught  the  gist  of  it  all.  No  word  had  come  from 
Alatri  since  Francis's  return,  and  even  as  I  read  the 
glamour  of  that  remote  existence  grew  round  me. 

She  had  written  before,  she  said,  both  to  Signorino 
Francesco  and  to  me,  but  she  supposed  that  the  let- 
ters had  gone  wrong,  for  they  said  the  Government 
soaked  off  the  stamps  from  the  envelopes  and  sold 
them  again.  But  that  was  all  right;  they  wanted 
every  penny  they  could  get  to  spend  against  the 
devil- Austrians.  Dio!  What  tremendous  battles! 
How  the  gallant  Italian  boys  were  sweeping  them 
out  of  the  Trentino !  And  Goriza  had  fallen  twenty 
times  already.  Surely  it  must  have  fallen  by  now. 
And  there  was  the  straight  road  to  Trieste.  .  .  . 

The  flame  of  war  had  set  Alatri  alight;  there  was 
scarce  a  man  of  military  age  left  on  the  island,  ex- 
cept the  soldiers  who  from  time  to  ^tirne  were  quar- 


152  UP  AND  DOWN 

tered  there.  The  price  of  provisions  was  hideous, 
but  thrifty  folk  had  planted  vegetables  in  their  gar- 
dens, and  if  God  said  that  only  the  rich  might  have 
meat,  why,  the  poor  would  get  on  very  well  without. 
She  herself  had  planted  nutritious  beans  in  the 
broad  flower-bed,  as  soon  as  the  flowers  were  over, 
as  she  had  said  in  her  previous  letter  (not  received), 
and  already  she  had  made  good  soup  from  them, 
since  Signorino  Francesco  had  told  her  to  use  gar- 
den produce  for  herself.  But  Signora  Machonochie 
had  come  to  borrow  some  beans,  and,  as  the  beans 
belonged  to  the  Signori,  Seraphina  wished  for  per- 
mission to  give  her  them,  since  they  would  other- 
wise be  dried,  and  make  good  soup  again  when  the 
Signori  returned.  For  herself — scusi — she  thought 
the  Signora  Machonochie  was  a  good  soul  (though 
greedy),  for  she  was  always  making  mittens  for  the 
troops  on  the  snow  of  the  frontier  against  the  winter- 
time, and  went  about  the  roads  perpetually  knitting, 
so  that  one  day  she,  not  looking  where  she  was 
going,  charged  into  Ludovico's  manure  cart,  and 
was  much  soiled.  So,  if  it  was  our  wish  that  she 
should  have  some  beans,  she  should  have  them,  but 
there  would  be  fewer  bottles  in  the  store-room. 

Then  Seraphina  became  more  of  a  friend,  less  of 
a  careful  housekeeper.    She  continued: 

"The  house  expects  your  excellencies'  dear  pres- 
ence whenever  you  can  return.  All  the  rooms  are 
like  Sunday  brooches:  there  is  no  speck  of  dust. 
Pasqualino  has  been  gone  this  long  time,  for  as 


OCTOBER,  1915  153 

soon  as  we  went  to  war  with  the  stinking  beasts,  up 
he  goes  to  the  military  office,  and  swears  on  the  Holy 
Book  that  he  is  just  turned  nineteen,  and  has  come 
to  report  himself  to  the  authorities.  Of  course, 
they  looked  him  out  in  their  register,  and  he  was 
but  eighteen,  but  he  confessed  his  perjury  when 
it  was  no  longer  any  use  to  deny  it,  and  they  were 
not  displeased  with  him,  nor  did  he  go  to  prison, 
as  happened  to  Luigi.  But  they  wanted  young  fel- 
lows for  the  Red  Cross  who  look  after  the  wounded, 
and,  after  many  prayers,  Pasqualino  was  permitted, 
in  spite  of  his  perjury,  to  go  and  serve.  Gold  but- 
tons, no  less,  on  his  jacket;  so  smart  he  looked;  and 
there  was  Caterina  smiling  and  crying  all  in  one, 
and  she  gulped  and  kissed  him,  and  kissed  him 
again  and  gulped,  and  for  all  the  world  she  was  as 
proud  of  him  as  the  priest  on  Sunday  morning,  and 
would  not  have  had  him  stay.  She  came  up  here 
to  help  in  the  house,  and  it  is  all  for  love  of  Pas- 
qualino, for  once  I  offered  her  some  soldi  for  the 
help  she  had  given  me  in  dusting,  and  she  just 
smacked  my  hand,  and  the  soldi  fell  out,  and  we 
kissed  each  other,  for  then  I  understood;  and  she 
asked  to  go  to  Pasqualino's  room  and  sat  on  the 
bed,  and  looked  at  his  washstand,  and  stroked  the 
coat  he  had  left  behind.  Oh,  I  understand  young 
hearts,  Signor,  for  all  that  I  am  old,  and  I  left  her 
alone  there,  and  presently  she  came  down  again  and 
told  me  her  trouble.  It  was  the  night  before  he 
went,  and  your  excellency  must  not  think  hardly  of 
him  or  her.    Scusi,  if  I  give  advice,  but  they  were 


154  UP  AND  DOWN 

young,  and  did  not  think,  for  you  do  not  think  v/hen 
you  are  young,  and  they  are  beautiful,  both  of  them, 
and  when  they  are  beautiful,  who  can  wonder? 
She  knows  he  will  marry  her,  and,  indeed,  Alatri 
knows  it  too,  and  thus  the  bambino  will  not  be 
blackened.  Pasqualino  is  a  good  boy,  and  in  spit-e 
of  it,  she  wanted  him  to  go  for  the  sake  of  the 
wounded,  thinking  nothing  of  herself  and  the  little 
one  within  her.  Alatri  will  be  blind  to  the  bambino, 
and  wait  for  him  to  make  it  all  right. 

"Eh,  what  a  pen  I  have,  for  it  runs  on  like  a  tap ! 
All  this  last  month  I  have  been  writing  a  little 
every  day,  and  now  it  is  nearly  finished.  But  still 
I  think  the  Signor  would  like  to  hear  of  Teresa  of 
the  Cake-shop.  There  was  never  such  a  wonder; 
it  was  like  a  miracle.  Suddenly  she  would  have 
no  more  of  the  cake-shop,  but  must  needs  go  to 
Naples,  and  learn  to  be  a  nurse,  and  look  after  the 
wounded,  as  Pasqualino  had  done.  Never,  as  the 
Signor  knows,  had  she  gone  down  to  the  Marina 
since  fifteen  years  ago  (or  is  it  sixteen?),  when  she 
went  to  meet  her  promesso,  Vincenzo  Rhombo,  who 
had  come  back  from  Buenos  Ayres,  and  even  as  he 
landed  on  the  Marina,  was  stricken  in  her  very  arms 
with  the  cholera  and  died  that  day.  Never  since 
then  had  Teresa  gone  to  the  Marina,  whatever  was 
the  festa  or  the  fireworks;  but  now  nothing  would 
serve  her  but  that  she  must  go  to  help  in  the  war. 
She  had  money,  for  the  cake-shop  had  done  well  all 
these  years,  and  she  must  needs  go  and  spend  her 
money  in  learning  nursing  in  Naples.    All  of  a  sud- 


OCTOBER,  1915  155 

den  it  was  so  with  her,  and  one  day  a  month  ago 
she  asked  me  to  come  down  with  her  to  see  her 
forth.  And  when  we  came  to  the  Marina,  Signor, 
she  shut  her  eyes,  for  she  could  not  bear  to  see  it, 
and  asked  me  to  lead  her  along  the  quay  to  where 
the  boats  took  off  the  passengers  by  the  steamer. 
All  along  the  quay  I  led  her,  she  with  eyes  closed; 
but  when  we  came  to  the  steps,  where  Vincenzo 
had  landed  and  fell  into  her  arms  a  stricken  man, 
then  at  last  she  opened  her  eyes,  or  the  tears  opened 
them,  and  she  fell  on  her  knees  and  kissed  the  place 
where  Vincenzo  had  been  joined  to  her.  She  kissed 
it,  and  she  kissed  it,  and  then  suddenly  her  tears 
dried,  and  she  stepped  into  the  boat  and  waved  her 
hand  to  her  friends  and  said:  ^Vincenzo  wishes  it; 
Vincenzo  wishes  it.'  Oh,  a  brave  woman!  she  Vad 
not  baked  her  heart  in  the  cake-shop. 

**My  humble  duty  to  you,  excellency,  Seraphina 
has  no  more  to  say,  but  that  often  the  step  goes 
up  and  down  in  the  studio.  I  think,  as  Donna  Mar- 
gherita  said,  that  someone  guards  the  house.  It 
is  as  a  sentry,  who  makes  the  house  secure.  But  it 
will  be  a  good  day  when  I  hear  there  the  steps  of  the 
Signorino  and  of  you.  All  humble  compliments  and 
the  good  wishes  of  a  friend  who  is  Seraphina. 

''Sciisif  Shall  I  sow  the  flower  seeds  in  the  garden 
that  were  saved  from  last  year?  If  the  Signori 
will  not  be  here  in  the  spring,  what  need  to  sow 
them,  for  they  will  keep,  will  they  not?  But  if  there 
is  a  chance  of  your  coming,  the  garden  must  needs 
be  gay  with  a  welcome." 


156  UP  AND  DOWN 

Right  in  the  middle  of  the  black  cloud  of  war 
there  came  a  rift,  as  I  read  Seraphina's  budget  of 
news.  Some  breeze  parted  the  folds  of  it,  and  I 
saw  a  peep  of  blue  sky  and  bluer  sea,  and  the  stone- 
pine  and  the  terraced  gardens,  with  the  morning 
glory  rioting  on  the  wall.  But  how  incredibly  re- 
mote it  seemed,  as  if  it  belonged  to  some  previous 
cycle  of  existence;  as  if  the  closed  doors  of  eternity 
that  swing  shut  when  we. are  born  had  opened  again, 
and  I  looked  on  some  previous  incarnation.  I 
thought  I  remembered  (before  the  war  came)  ex- 
periences like  those  which  Seraphina's  letter  sug- 
gested, but  they  seemed  like  the  affairs  of  child- 
hood, when  imagination  is  so  mixed  up  with  reality 
that  we  scarcely  know  whether  there  are  robbers 
in  the  shrubbery  or  not.  We  pretend  that  there  are, 
and  even  while  we  pretend  dusk  falls  and  the  shrub- 
bery has  to  be  passed,  and  we  are  not  certain 
whether  there  are  not  robbers  there,  after  all.  It  was 
so  with  the  recollection  of  the  things  of  which  Sera- 
phina  spoke  (and  even  they  were  mixed  up  with 
war).  I  felt  I  might  have  dreamed  them,  or  have 
invented  them  for  myself,  or  have  experienced  them 
in  some  pre-natal  existence.  Just  that  one  glimpse 
I  had  of  them,  and  no  more;  then  the  rift  in  the 
clouds  closed  up  again,  and  blacker  than  ever  before, 
except  perhaps  during  the  days  of  the  Retreat  from 
Mons,  grew  the  gigantic  bastion  of  storm  through 
which  we  had  to  pass.  .  .  .  Even  so  once,  thunder- 
clouds collected  before  me  when  I  was  on  the  top 
of  an  Alpine  peak,  gathering  and  growing  thicker 


OCTOBER,  1915  157 

with  extraordinary  swiftness.  A  rent  came  in  them 
for  a  moment,  and  through  it  we  could  see  the  pas- 
tures and  villages  ten  thousand  feet  below.  Then 
it  closed  up,  and  we  had  to  pass  through  the  clouds 
out  of  which  already  the  lightning  was  leaping  be- 
fore we  could  arrive  on  the  safe  familiar  earth 
again. 

I  could  scarcely  realize,  then,  what  life  was  like 
before  the  war,  and  now,  looking  forward,  it  seemed 
impossible  to  imagine  that  there  could  be  any  end 
to  the  murderous  business.  This  month  a  wave  of 
pessimism  swept  over  London;  even  those  who  had 
been  most  optimistic  were  submerged  in  it;  and  all 
that  was  possible  was  to  go  on,  the  more  occupied 
the  better,  and,  anyhow,  not  to  talk  about  it.  A 
dozen  times  had  our  hopes  flared  high ;  a  dozen  times 
they  had  been  extinguished. 

Only  a  few  months  ago  we  had  seen  the  advance 
of  the  Russian  armies  through  Galicia,  and  had  told 
each  other  that  the  relentless  steam-roller  had  begun 
its  irresistible  progress  across  the  Central  Empires, 
leaving  them  flattened  out  and  ground  to  powder 
in  its  wake.  But  now,  instead  of  their  being  flat- 
tened out  in  its  wake,  it  appeared  that  they  had 
only  been  concentrated  and  piled  high  in  front  of 
it,  for  now  the  billow  of  the  enemies'  armies,  poised 
and  menacing,  had  broken  and  swept  the  steam- 
roller far  back  on  the  beach,  where  now  it  remained 
stuck  in  the  shingle  with  quenched  furnaces  and  a 
heavy  list.  Przemysl  had  been  retaken;  the  newly- 
christened  Lvoff  had  become  Lemberg  again;  War- 


158  UP  AND  DOWN 

saw  had  fallen;  Ivangorod  had  fallen;  Grodno  and 
Vilna  had  fallen.  For  the  time,  it  is  true,  that  great 
billow  had  spent  itself,  but  none  knew  yet  what 
damage  and  dislocation  had  been  wrought  on  the 
steam-roller.  Russia's  friends  assured  us  that  the 
invincible  resolve  of  her  people  had  suffered  no 
damage,  and  expressed  their  unshaken  belief  in  the 
triumphant  march  of  her  destiny.  But  even  the 
most  eloquent  preachers  of  confidence  found  it  dif- 
ficult to  explain  precisely  on  what  their  confidence 
was  based. 

That  was  not  all,  nor  nearly  all.  In  the  Balkans 
Bulgaria  had  joined  the  enemy;  the  fat  white  fox 
Ferdinand  had  kissed  his  hand  to  his  august 
brothers  in  Vienna  and  Berlin,  and  soon,  when  Ser- 
via  had  been  crushed,  they  would  meet,  and  in  each 
other's  presence  confirm  the  salutation,  and  be- 
Kaiser  and  be-Czar  each  other.  From  one  side  the 
Austro-German  advance  had  begun,  from  the  other 
the  Bulgarian,  and  it  was  certain  that  in  a  few 
weeks  we  should  see  Servia  extinguished — extermi- 
nated even  as  Belgium  had  been.  It  was  useless 
to  imagine  that  all  the  despairing  gallantry  of  that 
mountain  people  could  stand  against  the  double  in- 
vasion, or  to  speak  of  the  resistance  in  the  impreg- 
nable mountain  passes,  which  would  take  months 
to  overcome.  Such  talk  was  optimism  gone  mad, 
even  as  in  the  Retreat  from  Mons  certain  incredible 
tacticians  in  the  Press  assured  us  that  this  was  all 
part  of  a  strategic  move,  whereby  the  German  lines 
of  communication  would  be  lengthened.    Certainly 


OCTOBER,  1915  159 

their  lines  of  communication  were  being  lengthened, 
for  they  were  pressing  the  Allies,  who  were  totally 
unable  to  stand  against  that  first  rush,  across  half 
Fra»nce.  So  now  only  insane  interpreters  could  give 
encouraging  comments  on  the  news  from  Servia. 
Servia,  who  had  been  but  a  king's  pawn  to  open  the 
savage  game  that  was  being  played  over  the  length 
and  breadth  of  Europe,  was  taken  and  swept  off  the 
board;  in  a  few  weeks  at  the  most  we  should  see 
the  power  of  Germany  extending  unbroken  from 
Antwerp  on  the  West  to  Constantinople  on  the  East. 
Allied  to  Bulgaria  and  Turkey,  with  Servia  crushed, 
the  way  to  the  East,  should  she  choose  to  go  East- 
wards, lay  open  and  undefended  in  front  of  her.  It 
seemed  more  than  possible,  too,  that  Greece,  who 
had  invited  the  troops  of  the  Allies  to  Salonika, 
would  join  the  triumphant  advance  of  the  Central 
Empires.  Our  diplomacy,  as  if  it  had  been  some 
card  game  played  by  children,  had  been  plucked  from 
our  hands  and  scattered  over  the  nursery  table; 
every  chance  that  had  been  ours  had  been  thrown  on 
to  the  rubbish  heap,  and  Germany,  going  to  the  rub- 
bish heap,  had  picked  up  our  lost  opportunities  and 
shown  us  how  to  use  them.  It  was  impossible  (it 
would  also  have  been  silly)  to  be  optimistic  over 
these  blunders;  the  Balkan  business  was  going  as 
badly  as  it  possibly  could. 

There  was  worse  yet.  Before  the  end  of  the 
month  no  one,  unless,  like  thQ  ostrich,  he  buried  his 
eyes  in  the  sand  and  considered  that  because  he  saw 
nothing  there  was  nothing  to  see,  had  any  real  hope 


160  UP  AND  DOWN 

of  a  successful  issue  to  the  Dardanelles  expedition, 
and  it  was  with  an  aching  sense  of  regret  that  one 
recalled  the  brave  days  when  the  Queen  Eliza- 
beth went  thundering  into  the  Straits,  and  we  were 
told  that  but  a  mile  or  two  divided  us  from  victory. 
But  what  miles!  They  seemed  quite  sufficient,  to 
divide  us,  even  as  when  on  board  ship  you  are 
told  that  only  a  plank  lies  between  yourself  and  a 
watery  grave,  the  plank  will  do  very  well  indeed  to 
keep  off  the  watery  grave.  That  mile  or  two  had 
the  same  stubborn  quality;  months  of  valiant  en- 
deavour, endless  sacrifice,  and  sickening  mistakes 
had  not  brought  us  any  nearer  our  goal. 

It  was  useless  to  blink  these  obvious  facts,  and  I 
found  one  morning  that  it  would  be  wiser  to  sit 
down  and  just  stare  them  in  the  face,  get  used  to 
them,  as  far  as  might  be,  rather  than  shuffle  them 
out  of  sight,  or  pretend  to  see  silver  linings  to  clouds 
which,  in  spite  of  the  proverb,  had  not  got  any. 
There  was  a  pit  of  clouds.  Somehow  that  must  be 
explored.  It  was  no  use  to  pretend  to  put  a  lid  on 
it,  and  say  there  was  no  such  pit.  I  had  to  go 
down  into  it. 

I  descended  then  into  this  "black  tremendous  sea 
of  cloud."  It  was  not  the  invariable  daily  tale  of 
ill-success  in  the  war  that  caused  it  to  form  in  my 
brain,  though  I  suppose  it  was  that  which  consoli- 
dated it.  It  came  like  an  obsession.  I  had  gone  to 
bed  one  night  with  hope  of  good  news  next  ,tiay; 
I  had  taken  pleasure  in  my  jolly  new  house!  I  had 
dined  with  friends  and  I  slept  well.     But  when  I 


OCTOBER,  1915  161 

woke  the  Thing  was  there.  There  was  no  bad  news 
in  the  paper  that  morning,  but  in  the  papers  and 
in  my  bed,  and  about  my  path,  and  in  my  breakfast, 
there  was  a  blackening  poison  that  spread  and 
sprouted  like  some  infernal  mushroom  of  plague. 
I  found  that  I  did  not  care  for  anything  any  more ; 
there  was  the  root  of  this  obsession.  I  thought  of 
the  friends  I  should  presently  meet  when  I  went  out 
to  my  work,  and  the  thought  of  them  roused  no  feel- 
ing of  any  kind.  There  was  a  letter  from  Francis, 
saying  that  in  a  week's  time  he  would  have  three 
days'  leave,  and  proposed  that  he  should  spend  them 
with  me.  There  was  a  letter  from  Kino,  saying  that 
he  had  found  the  book  which  I  so  much  wanted, 
and  would  bring  it  round  after  breakfast,  and  should 
we  go  out,  as  we  had  vaguely  planned,  that  after- 
noon to  Kew,  and  get  the  country  whiff  from  the 
flaming  autumn?  Certainly  if  he  liked,  thojLight  I, 
for  it  does  not  matter.  I  did  not  want  to  go,  nor 
did  I  want  not  to  go;  it  was  all  one,  for  over  all 
and  in  all  was  the  blackness  of  the  pit  of  clouds. 
We  went  accordingly,  and  to  me  his  face  and  his 
presence  were  no  more  than  the  face  and  the  pres- 
ence of  any  stranger  in  the  street.  He  had  lost  his 
meaning,  he  was  nonsense ;  it  might  have  been  some 
gesticulating  machine  that  walked  by  me.  We  looked 
at  the  flaring  towers  of  golden  and  russet  leaf,  and 
I  saw  them  as  you  see  something  through  the  wrong 
end  of  a  telescope.  I  saw  them  through  glass, 
through  a  diving  bell.  The  sun  was  warm,  the  sky 
was  flecked  with  the  loveliest  mackerel  scales  of 


162  UP  AND  DOWN 

cloud;  I  was  with  a  friend  stepping  along  mossy 
paths  below  the  beech-trees,  and  within  me  was  a 
centre-point  of  consciousness  that  only  wailed  and 
cried  out  at  the  horror  of  existence.  The  glory  of 
the  autumn  day  was  a§  magnificent  as  ever;  the 
smell  of  the  earth  and  the  tea-like  odour  of  dry 
leaves  had  in  itself  all  the  sting  and  thrill  that  be- 
longed to  it,  and  by  my  side  was  the  friend  with 
whom  the  laying  of  linoleum  had  been  so  wonder- 
ful a  delight,  because  we  laid  it  together,  and  I  was 
cut  off  from  it  all.  Everything  was  no  more  than 
dried  flowers,  sapless,  brittle  and  colourless. 

Those  days  were  no  more  than  hours  of  existence, 
to  which  somehow  my  flesh  clung,  though  the  fact 
of  existence  was  just  that  which  was  so  tragic  and 
so  irremediable.  By  occupying  myself,  by  doing  any- 
thing definite  that  required  attention,  even  if  it 
was  only  acknowledging  the  receipt  of  subscriptions, 
or  of  writing  begging  letters  on  behalf  of  the  fund 
for  which  I  worked,  I  could  cling  to  the  sheer  cliff 
and  still  keep  below  me  that  sea  of  cloud.  But  the 
moment  that  the  automatism  only  of  life  was 
wanted,  the  sea  rose  and  engulfed  me  again.  When 
I  walked  along  a  street,  when  I  sat  down  to  eat, 
when,  tired  with  conscious  effort  of  the  mind,  I 
relaxed  attention,  it  drowned  me.  The  effort  to  keep 
my  head  above  it  was  infinitely  fatiguing,  and  when 
at  nights,  having  been  unable  to  find  something 
more  to  do,  however  trivial,  or  when,  unable  to  hold 
the  dam-gate  any  longer,  I  went  up  to  bed,  the 
nightmare  of  existence  yelled  out  and  smothered 


OCTOBER,  1915  163 

me.  Huge  and  encompassing,  it  surged  about  a  pin- 
prick of  consciousness  which  was  myself;  black 
wrinkled  clouds  brooded  from  zenith  to  horizon,  and 
I  knew  that  beyond  the  horizon,  and  to  innumer- 
able horizons  beyond  that,  there  reached  that  inter- 
minablelDlackness  in  saecula  saeculorum.  Or,  again, 
as  in  some  feverish  dream,  behold,  it  was  I,  who 
just  before  had  been  a  pinprick  in  everlasting  time 
and  space,  who  now  swelled  up  to  infinite  dimen- 
sions, and  was  surrounded  for  ever  and  ever  by  gross 
and  infinitesimal  nothingness.  At  one  moment  I 
was  nothing  set  in  the  middle  of  cosmic  darkness; 
at  the  next  I  was  cosmic  darkness  itself,  set  in  a 
microscopic  loneliness,  an  alpha  and  omega  of  the 
everlasting  midnight.  No  footstep  fell  there,  no  face 
looked  out  from  it,  neither  of  God  nor  of  devil,  nor 
of  human  kind.  I  was  alone,  as  I  had  always  been 
alone;  here  was  the  truth  of  it,  for  it  was  but  a 
fancy  figment  that  there  was  a  scheme,  a  connection, 
a  knitting  of  the  members  of  the  world  to  each  other, 
and  of  them  to  God.  I  had  made  that  up  myself; 
it  was  but  one  of  the  foolish  stories  that  I  had  often 
busied  myself  with.  But  I  knew  better  now;  I  was 
alone,  and  all  was  said. 

Now  there  are  many  who  have  been  through  much 
darker  and  deeper  waters  than  these,  without  ap- 
proaching real  melancholia.  To  the  best  of  my  be- 
lief I  did  no  more  than  paddle  at  the  edge  of  them. 
Certainly  they  seemed  to  close  over  me,  except  for 
that  one  fact  that  even  where  they  were  deepest, 
any  manual  or  mental  act  that  required  definite 


164  UP  AND  DOWN 

thought  was  sufficient  for  the  moment  to  give  me 
a  breath  of  air.  All  pleasure,  and,  so  it  seemed  to 
me,  all  love  had  become  obscured,  but  there  was 
still  some  sense  of  decency  left  that  prevented  me 
from  lying  down  on  the  floor,  and  saying  in  the 
Italian  phrase,  'Won  po'  combattere."  There  was 
a  double  consciousness  still.  I  said  to  myself,  "I 
give  up!"  but  I  didn't  act  as  if  I  gave  up,  nor  did 
I  tell  another  human  soul  that  in  myself  I  had 
done  so.  I  confessed  to  depression,  but  didn't  talk 
about  it.  I  wrote  a  perfectly  normal  and  cordial 
letter  to  Francis,  saying  how  welcome  he  would  be, 
though  I  felt  that  there  was  no  such  person.  Still, 
I  wrote  to  him,  and  did  not  seriously  expect  that 
my  note  would  be  returned  through  the  dead-letter 
office.  And  this  is  precisely  the  reason  why  I  have 
written  these  last  pages;  it  is  to  assure  all  those  who 
know,  from  inside,  what  such  void  and  darkness 
means,  that  the  one  anchor  is  employment,  and  the 
absolute  necessity  is  behaving  in  a  normal  manner. 
It  does  not  seem  worth  while;  it  seems,  too,  all  but 
impossible,  but  tt  is  not  quite  impossible,  and  there 
is  nothing  which  is  so  much  worth  while.  Until 
you  actually  go  over  the  edge,  stick  to  the  edge. 
Do  not  look  down  into  the  abyss,  keep  your  eyes 
on  such  ground  as  there  is,  and  find  something  there: 
a  tuft  of  grass,  a  fallen  feather,  the  root  of  a  wild 
plant — and  look  at  it.  If  you  are  so  fortunate  as  to 
discover  a  little  bare  root  there,  something  easily 
helped,  cover  it  up  with  a  handful  of  kindly  soil. 
(You  will  not  slip  while  you  are  doing  this.)     If 


OCTOBER,  1915  165 

a  feather,  be  sure  that  some  bird  has  flown  over, 
and  dropped  it  from  a  sunlit  wing ;  if  a  tuft  of  grass, 
think  of  the  seed  from  which  it  came.  Besides, 
if  God  wills  that  you  go  down  into  Hell,  He  is  there 
also.  .  .  . 

Hold  on,  just  hold  on.  Sometimes  you  will  look 
back  on  the  edge  to  which  you  clung,  and  will  won- 
der what  ailed  you. ' 

It  was  so  with  me.  I  merely  held  on  till  life, 
with  its  joys  and  its  ties,  began  to  steal  back  into 
me,  even  as  into  a  dark  room  the  light  begins  to 
filter  at  dawn.  At  no  one  second  can  you  say  that 
it  is  lighter  than  it  was  the  second  before,  but  if  you 
take  a  series  of  seconds,  you  can  see  that  light  is 
in  the  ascendant.  A  certain  Friday,  for  instance, 
had  been  quite  intolerable,  but,  just  as  you  look  out 
of  the  window,  and  say  ''It  is  lighter,"  I  found  on 
Saturday  that,  though  nothing  in  the  least  cheer- 
ful had  happened  in  the  interval,  I  didn't  so  ear- 
nestly object  to  existence,  while  a  couple  of  days  later 
I  could  look  back  on  Friday  and  wonder  what  it 
had  all  been  about.  What  it  had  been  about  I  do 
not  know  now:  some  minute  cell,  I  suppose,  had 
worked  imperfectly,  and  lo!  ''the  scheme  of  things 
entire"  not  only  seemed,  but,  I  was  convinced,  was 
all  wrong.  Subjective  though  the  disturbance  was, 
it  could  project  itself  and  poison  the  world. 

Two  things  certainly  I  learned  from  it,  namely, 
that  manual  or  mental  employment,  hateful  though 
is  to  be  the  afflicted,  is  less  afflicting  than  idleness; 
the  second,  that  the  more  you  keep  your  depres- 


166  UP  AND  DOWN 

sion  to  yourself  the  better.  I  wish  that  the  infernal 
pessimists  whose  presence  blackens  London  would 
learn  this.  These  ravens  with  their  lugubrious  faces 
and  their  croaking  accents,  hop  obscenely  about  from 
house  to  house,  with  a  wallet  full  of  stories  which 
always  begin,  "They  say  that — "  and  there  follows 
a  tissue  of  mournful  prognostications.  They  project 
their  subjective  disturbance,  and  their  tale  begin- 
ning "They  say  that — "  or  "I  am  told  that — "  gen- 
erally means  that  Mr.  A.  and  Mr.  B.,  having  noth- 
ing to  do,  and  nothing  to  think  about,  have  sat  by 
the  j&re  and  ignorantly  wondered  what  is  going  to 
happen.  Having  fixed  on  the  worst  thing,  whatever 
it  is,  that  their  bilious  imagination  can  suggest, 
they  go  out  to  lunch,  and  in  accents  of  woe  proceed 
to  relate  that  "They  say  that — "  and  state  all  the 
dismal  forebodings  which  their  solitary  mediations 
have  hatched.  In  fact,  the  chief  reason  for  which 
I  wish  that  I  was  a  Member  of  Parliament  is  that 
I  could  then  bring  in  a  Bill  (or  attempt  to  do  so) 
for  the  Suppression  of  Pessimists.  I  would  also 
gladly  vote  for  a  Bill  that  provided  for  the  Suppres- 
sion of  Extreme  Optimists  on  the  same  ground, 
namely,  that  to  be  told  that  the  Kaiser  has  cancer, 
and  that  the  burgesses  ,of  Berlin  are  already  starv- 
ing, leads  to  a  reaction  such  as  the  pessimists  pro- 
duce by  direct  means.  To  be  told  that  the  Rus- 
sians are  incapable  of  further  resistance  on  the 
authority  of  "They  say  that — ^'  depresses  everybody 
at  once;  and  to  be  told  that  there  isn't  a  potato  to  be 
had  in  all  Germany  for  love  or  money  (particularly 


OCTOBER,  1915  167 

money)  gives  rise  to  an  alcoholic  cheerfulness  which 
dies  out  and  leaves  you  with  a  headache  of  deferred 
hopes.  These  grinning  optimists  were  particularly 
hard  to  bear  wh^n  the  terrible  Retreat  from  Mons 
was  going  on,  for  they  screamed  with  delight  at 
the  notion  that  we  were  lengthening  out  the  Ger- 
man lines  of  communication,  which  subsequently 
would  be  cut,  as  by  a  pair  of  nail-scissors  lightly 
wielded,  and  the  flower  of  the  German  army  neatly 
plucked  like  a  defenceless  wayside  blossom.  The 
same  smiling  idiots  were  to  the  fore  again  during  the 
great  Russian  retreat,  and  told  us  to  wait,  finger  on 
lip,  with  rapturous  eyes,  till  the  Germans  had 
reached  the  central  steppes  of  Russia,  when  thev 
would  all  swiftly  expire  of  frosts,  Cossacks  and  inan- 
ition. But,  after  all,  these  rose-coloured  folk  do  very 
little  harm;  they  make  us  go  about  our  work  with 
a  heady  sense  of  exhilaration,  which,  though  it  soon 
passes  off,  is  by  no  means  unpleasant.  At  the  worst 
extreme  optimists  are  only  fools  on  the  right  side, 
whereas  pessimists  are  bores  and  beasts  on  the  wrong 
one. 

Pessimists  have  had  a  high  old  time  all  this  month. 
They  do  not  exactly  rejoice  when  things  go  ill  for 
us,  but  misfortune  has  a  certain  sour  satisfaction 
for  them,  because  it  fulfils  what  they  thought  (and 
said)  in  September.  Thus  now  they  nod  and  sigh, 
and  proceed  to  tell  us  what  they  augur  for  Novem- 
ber. If  only  they  would  keep  their  misery  to  them- 
selves, nobody  would  care  how  miserable  they  are; 
but  the  gratuitous  diffusion  of  it  is  what  should  be 


168  UP  AND  DOWN 

made  illegal.  For  the  microbe  of  pessimism  is  the 
most  infectious  of  bacteria;  it  spreads  in  such  a 
manner  that  all  decent-minded  folk,  when  they 
have  fallen  victims  to  it,  ought  surely  (on  the  anal- 
ogy of  what  they  would  do  if  it  was  influenza)  to 
shut  themselves  up  and  refuse  to  see  anybody.  But 
because  the  disease  is  one  of  the  mind,  it  appears 
that  it  is  quite  proper  for  the  sufferer  to  go  and 
sneeze  in  other  people's  faces.  There  ought  to  be 
a  board  of  moral  health,  which  by  its  regulations 
would  make  it  criminal  to  spread  mental  disorders, 
such  as  pessimism.  I  had  so  severe  an  attack  of 
it  myself,  when  the  clouds  encompassed  me,  that  I 
have  a  certain  right  to  propose  legislation  on  the 
subject.  Those  afflicted  by  the  painful  disease  which, 
like  typhoid,  is  only  conveyed  through  the  mouth, 
in  terms  of  articulate  speech,  should  be  fined  some 
moderate  sum  for  any  speech  that  was  likely  to 
propagate  pessimism.  If  the  disease  is  acute,  and 
the  sufferer  feels  himself  in  serious  danger  of  burst- 
ing unless  he  talks,  he  would  of  course  be  at  liberty 
to  shut  himself  up  in  any  convenient  room  out  of 
earshot,  and  talk  till  he  felt  better.  Only  it  should 
be  on  his  responsibility  that  his  conversation  should 
not  be  overheard  by  anybody,  and,  in  suspension  of 
the  common  law  of  England,  a  wife  should  be  com- 
petent to  witness  against  her  husband. 

It  is  not  because  the  ravens  are  such  liars  that 
I  complain,  for  lying  is  the  sort  of  thing  that  may 
happen  to  anybody,  but  it  is  the  depressing  nature 
of  their  lies.    The  famous  national  outburst  of  lying 


OCTOBER,  1915  169 

that  took  place  over  the  supposed  passage  of  hun- 
dreds of  thousands  of  Russians  through  England  on 
their  way  to  the  battle-fields  of  France  and  Flan- 
ders was  harmless,  inspiriting  lying.  So,  too,  the 
splendid  mendacity  that  seized  so  many  of  our 
citizens  on  the  occasion  of  the  second  Zeppelin  raid. 
That  ubiquitous  airship  I  verily  believe  was  seen 
hovering  over  every  dwelling-house  in  London;  it 
hovered  in  Kensington,  in  Belgravia,  in  Mayfair, 
in  Hampstead,  in  Chelsea,  and  the  best  of  it  was 
that  it  never  came  near  these  districts  at  all.  In 
fact,  it  became  a  mere  commonplace  that  it  hov- 
ered over  your  house,  and  a  more  soaring  breed  of 
liars  arose.  One  asserted  that  on  looking  up  he 
had  seen  their  horrid  German  faces  leaning  over 
the  side  of  the  car;  another,  that  the  cigar-shaped 
shadow  of  it  passed  over  his  blind.  Of  course,  it 
passed  over  Brompton  Square,  on  which  the  Zep- 
pelinians  were  preparing  to  drop  bombs,  thinking 
that  the  dome  of  the  Oratory  was  the  dome  of  St. 
Paul's,  and  that  they  had  thus  a  good  chance  of 
destroying  the  Bank  of  England.  But  in  the  still- 
ness of  the  night,  amid  the  soft  murmurs  of  the 
anti-aircraft  guns,  a  guttural  voice  from  above  was 
heard  to  say,  "Nein:  das  ist  nicht  St.  Paul's,''  and 
the  engine  of  destruction  passed  on,  leaving  us  un- 
harmed.   Was  not  that  a  fortunate  thing? 

Of  course,  by  the  time  the  Zeppelins  began  to 
visit  us,  we  had  all  had  a  good  deal  of  practice  in 
lying,  which  accounted  for  the  gorgeous  oriental 
colouring  of  such  amazing  imaginings.    But  the  pio- 


170  UP  AND  DOWN 

neers  of  this  great  revival  of  the  cult  of  Ananias, 
were  undoubtedly  that  multitude  whom  none  can 
number,  who  were  ready  to  produce  (or  manufac- 
ture) any  amount  of  evidence  to  prove  that  soon 
after  the  outbreak  of  the  war  battalions  of  Rus- 
sian troops  in  special  trains,  with  blinds  drawn 
down,  were  dashing  through  the  country.  It  is  a 
thousand  pities  that  some  serious  and  industrious 
historian  was  not  commissioned  by  his  Government 
to  collect  the  evidence  and  issue  it  in  tabulated  form, 
for  it  would  have  prov^ed  an  invaluable  contribution 
to  psychology.  There  was  never  any  first-hand  evi- 
dence on  the  subject  (for  the  simple  reason  that  the 
subject  had  no  real  existence),  but  the  mass  of  sec- 
ondhand evidences  went  far  to  prove  the  non-exist- 
ent. From  Aberdeen  to  Southamption  there  was 
scarcely  a  station  at  which  a  porter  had  not  seen 
these  army  corps  and  told  somebody's  gardener.  The 
accounts  tallied  remarkably,  the  trains  invariably 
had  their  blinds  drawn  down,  and  occasionally 
bearded  soldiers  peered  out  of  the  windows.  There 
was  a  camp  of  them  on  Salisbury  Plain,  and  hun- 
dreds of  Englishmen  who  knew  no  language  but 
their  own,  distinctly  heard  them  talking  Russian  to 
each  other.  Sometimes  stations  (as  at  Reading)  had 
platforms  boarded  up  to  exclude  the  public,  and 
the  public  from  neighbouring  eminences  saw  the 
bearded  soldiers  drinking  quantities  of  tea  out  of 
samovars.  This  was  fine  imaginative  stuff,  for  the 
samovar,  of  course,  is  an  urn,  and  nobody  but  a 
Russian,  surely,  would  drink  tea  out  of  an  urn. 


OCTOBER,  1915  171 

There  was  collateral  evidence,  too:  one  day  the 
Celtic  was  mined  somewhere  in  the  North  Sea;  she 
had  on  board  tons  of  ammunition  and  big  guns, 
and  for  a  while  the  hosts  of  Russia  did  not  appear 
in  the  fighting  line,  beacause  they  had  remained  on 
Salisbury  Plain  till  fresh  supplies  of  ammunition 
came.  Bolder  spirits  essayed  higher  flights:  At 
Swindon  Station,  so  the  porter  told  the  gardener, 
they  had  been  seen  walking  about  the  platform 
stamping  the  snow  off  their  boots,  which  proved 
they  had  come  from  far  North,  where  the  snow  is 
of  so  perdurable  a  quality  that  it  travels  like  blocks 
of  ice  from  Norwegian  lakes  without  apparently 
melting  even  in  the  middle  of  a  hot  September.  Or 
again,  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Hatfield  the  usual 
gardener  had  heard  that  a  kepi  had  been  picked  up 
on  the  road,  and  what  do  you  think  was  the  name 
of  the  maker  printed  inside  it?  Why,  the  leading 
military  outfitter  of  Nijni-Novgorod !  There  was 
glory  for  you,  as  Humpty-Dumpty  said.  The  gar- 
dener fortunately  knew  who  the  leading  military 
outfitter  of  Nijni-Novgorod  was,  while  regarded  as 
a  proof  what  more  could  anybody  want?  How 
could  a  Russian  kepi  have  been  dropped  on  the 
North  Road  unless  at  least  a  hundred  thousand  Rus- 
sians had  been  going  in  special  trains  through  Eng- 
land? I  suppose  you  would  not  want  them  all  to 
throw  their  kepis  away. 

There  were  hundreds  of  such  stories,  none  first 
hand,  but  overwhelming  in  matter  of  cumulative 
secondhand  evidence,  all  springing  from  nowhere  but 


172  UP  AND  DOWN 

the  unassisted  brain  of  ordinary  Englishmen.  The 
wish  was  father  to  the  thought;  in  the  great  peril 
that  still  menaced  the  French  and  English  battle- 
line,  we  all  wanted  hundreds  of  thousands  of  Rus- 
sians, and  so  we  said  that  they  were  passing 
through.  Some  cowardly  rationalist,  I  believe,  has 
explained  the  whole  matter  by  saying  that  some 
firm  telegraphed  that  a  hundred  thousand  Russians 
(whereby  he  meant  Russian  eggs)  were  arriving.  I 
scorn  the  truckling  materialism  of  this.  The  Rus- 
sian stories  were  invented,  bit  by  bit,  even  as  coral 
grows,  by  innumerable  and  busy  liars,  spurred  on 
by  the  desire  that  their  fabrications  might  be  true. 
Bitter  animosities  sprang  up  between  those  who  did 
and  those  who  did  not  believe  the  Russian  Saga. 
Single  old  ladies,  to  whom  the  idea  that  Russia  was 
pouring  in  to  help  us  was  very  comforting,  altered 
their  wills  and  cut  off  faithless  nephews,  and  the 
most  stubborn  Thomases  amongst  us  were  forced 
to  confess  that  there  seemed  to  be  a  good  deal  to 
say  for  it,  while  the  fact  that  the  War  Office  stren- 
uously denied  the  whole  thing  was  easily  accounted 
for.  Of  course  the  War  Office  denied  it,  for  it  didn't 
want  the  Germans  to  know.  It  would  be  a  fine  sur- 
prise for  the  Germans  on  the  West  Front  to  find 
themselves  one  morning  facing  serried  rows  of  Rus- 
sians. .  .  .  They  would  be  utterly  bewildered,  for 
they  had  been  under  the  impression  that  Russia 
was  far  away  East,  on  the  other  side  of  the  Father- 
land; but  here  were  the  Russian  armies!  They  would 
think  their  compasses  had  gone  mad;  they  would 


OCTOBER,  1915  173 

have  been  quite  giddy  with  surprise,  and  have  got 
that  lost  feeling  which  does  so  much  to  undermine 
the  morale  of  troops.    Oh,  a  great  stroke ! 

But  all  these  {lussian  and  Zeppelin  Saga  were 
good  heady,  encouraging  lies,  tonic  instead  of  low- 
ering, like  the  dejected  inventions  of  prostrate  pes- 
simists. I  do  not  defend,  on  principle,  the  habit  of 
making  up  stories  and  saying  that  a  porter  at  Read- 
ing told  your  gardener;  but,  given  that  you  are 
going  to  do  that  sort  of  thing,  I  do  maintain  that  you 
are  bound  to  invent  such  stores  as  will  encourage  and 
not  depress  your  credulous  friends.  You  have  no 
right  to  attempt  to  rob  them  of  their  most  precious 
possession  in  times  like  these, .  namely,  the  power 
of  steadfast  resistance  of  the  spirit  to  trouble  and 
anxiety,  by  inventing  further  causes  of  depression. 
The  law  forbids  you  to  take  away  a  man's  forks  and 
spoons;  it  ought  also  to  forbid  the  dissemination  of 
such  false  news  as  will  deprive  him  of  his  appetite 
for  his  mutton  chop. 

Indeed,  I  fancy  that  by  the  law  of  England  as 
laid  down  in  the  statute-book  it  is  treasonable  in 
times  of  national  crisis  to  discourage  the  subjects 
of  the  King,  and  I  wonder  whether  it  would  not  be 
possible,  as  there  has  been  so  little  grouse-shooting 
this  year,  to  have  a  grouser-shoot  instead.  A  quan- 
tity of  old  birds  want  clearing  off.  Guns  might  be 
placed,  let  us  say,  in  butts  erected  along  the  south 
side  of  Piccadilly,  and  the  grousers  would  be  driven 
from  the  moors  of  Mayfair  by  a  line  of  beaters 
starting  from  Oxford  Street.    The  game  would  break 


174  UP  AND  DOWN 

cover,  so  I  >^uppose,  from  Dover  Street,  Berkeley 
Street,  Half  Moon  Street,  and  so  on,  and  to  pre- 
vent their  escaping  into  Regent  Street  on  the  one 
side  and  Park  Lane  on  the  other,  stops  would  be 
placed  at  the  entrance  of  streets  debouching  here 
in  the  shape  of  huge  posters  announcing  victories 
by  land  and  sea  for  the  Allied  forces.  These  the 
grousers  would  naturally  be  unable  to  pass,  and 
thus  they  would  be  driven  out  into  Piccadilly  and 
shot.  This  would  take  the  morning,  and  after  a 
good  lunch  at  the  Ritz  Hotel  the  shooters  would 
proceed  to  the  covers  of  Kensington.  Other  days 
would,  of  course,  be  arranged.  .  .  . 

But  all  this  month  the  devastating  tide  swept  on 
through  Serbia.  Occasionally  there  were  checks, 
as,  for  a  moment,  it  dashed  against  some  little  reef 
before  submerging  it;  but  soon  wave  succeeding 
wave  overleaped  such  barriers,  and  now  Serbia  lies 
under  the  waters  of  the  inundation.  And  in  these 
shortening  days  of  autumn  the  sky  grows  red  in  the 
East  with  the  dawning  of  new  fires  of  battle,  and 
to  the  watchers  there  it  goes  down  red  in  the  West, 
where  from  Switzerland  to  the  sea,  behind  the 
trenches,  the  graveyards  stretch  themselves  out  over 
the  unsown  fields  of  France. 


NOVEMBER,  1915. 

Francis  arrived  on  the  last  day  of  October,  with 
a  week's  leave  before  his  regiment  embarked  for 
the  Dardanelles.  For  a  few  hours  he  was  a  mere 
mass  of  physical  needs;  until  these  were  satisfied 
he  announced  himself  as  incapable  of  thinking  or 
speaking  of  anything  but  the  carnalities. 

"Tea  at  once,"  he  said.  ''No,  I  think  I  won't  have 
tea  with  you ;  I  want  tea  sent  up  to  the  bath-room. 
That  packet?  It's  a  jar  of  bath  salts — verbena — all 
of  which  I  am  going  to  use.  I  saw  it  in  a  shop 
window,  and  quite  suddenly  I  knew  I  wanted  it. 
Nothing  else  seemed  to  matter.  I  want  a  dressing- 
gown,  too.  Will  you  lend  me  one?  And  slippers. 
For  a  few  hours,  I  propose  to  wallow  in  a  sensual 
sty.  I've  planned  it  all,  and  for  the  last  week  I 
have  thought  of  nothing  else." 

He  sketched  the  sty.  There  was  to  be  tea  in  the 
bath-room  and  a  mufl&n  for  tea.  This  he  would  eat 
as  he  lay  in  a  hot  bath  full  of  verbena  salts.  He 
would  then  put  on  his  dressing-gown  and  lie  in  bed 
for  half  an  hour,  reading  a  shilling  shocker  and 
smoking  cigarettes.  (End  of  Part  I.)  StiU  in  his 
dressing-gown  he  would  come  downstairs,  and  smoke 
more  cigarettes  before  my  fire,  till  it  was  time  to 
have  a  cocktail.    We  would  dine  at  home  (he  left 

175 


176  UP  AND  DOWN 

the  question  of  dinner  to  me,  provided  only  that 
there  should  be  a  pineapple),  after  which  we  should 
go  to  the  movies.  We  were  then  to  drive  rapidly- 
home  in  a  taxi,  and,  over  sandwiches  and  whisky 
and  soda,  he  felt  that  he  would  return  to  a  normal 
level  again.  But  the  idea  of  being  completely  com- 
fortable and  clean  and  gorged  and  amused  for  a 
few  hours  had  taken  such  hold  of  him,  that  he  could 
not  "reach  his  mind"  until  the  howling  beast  of 
his  body  had  been  satisfied.  That,  at  least,  was  the 
plan. 

Accordingly,  proclamation  having  come  from  up- 
stairs that  all  was  ready,  Francis  departed  to  his 
sty,  and  I,  as  commanded,  waited  till  such  time  as 
he  should  reappear  in  my  dressing-gown  and  slip- 
pers. But  long  before  his  programme  (Part  I.) 
could  have  been  carried  out  he  re-entered. 

"It  didn't  seem  worth  while  to  get  into  bed,"  he 
said,  "so  I  left  that  out.  I  loved  the  bath-salts,  and 
the  tea  was  excellent.  But  how  soon  anything  that 
can  be  satisfied  is  satisfied.    It's  only " 

He  leaned  forward  and  poked  the  fire,  stretching 
his  legs  out  towards  the  blaze. 

"I've  travelled  a  long  way  since  we  met,"  he 
said,  "and  the  further  one  goes  the  simpler  the  way 
becomes.  The  mystics  are  perfectly  right.  You  can 
only  get  what  you  want,  what  your  soul  wants,  by 
chucking  away  all  that  you  have.  The  only  way 
to  find  yourself  is  to  lose  yourself.  I've  been  losing 
myself  all  these  months,  and  I  began  to  recover 
little  bits  of  me  that  1  didn't  want  over  the  muffin 


NOVEMBER,  1915  177 

and  the  verbena.  I  was  afraid  I  should  find  more 
if  I  tucked  up  in  bed.  That's  why  I  didn't.  I  used 
to  want  such  lots  of  things;  now  there  is  growing 
a  pile  of  things  I  don't  want." 

I  put  the  cigarette-box  near  him. 

"There  are  the  smokes,"  I  said,  "and  let  me  know 
when  you  want  a  cocktail.  We'll  have  dinner  when 
you  like.  Now  I  have  heard  nothing  from  you  for 
the  last  three  months;  let's  have  a  budget." 

"Right.  Well,  the  material  side  of  the  affair  is 
soon  done  with.  I'm  Quartermaster-Sergeant,  with 
stripes  and  a  crown  on  my  arm,  as  you  have  noticed, 
and  I  live  immersed  in  accounts  and  stores  and  sup- 
plies. I  have  to  see  that  the  men  have  enough  and 
are  comfortable,  and  I  have  to  be  as  economical  as 
I  can.    That's  my  life,  and  it's  being  my  salvation." 

He  lay  back  in  his  chair,  the  picture  of  complete 
indolence,  with  eyes  half  closed.  But  I  knew  that 
to  be  a  sign  of  intense  internal  activity.  Most 
people,  I  am  aware,  when  they  are  aflame  with 
some  mental  or  spiritual  topic,  walk  up  and  down 
with  bright  eyes  and  gesticulating  hands.  But  it 
is  Francis's  great  conjuring  trick  to  disconnect  his 
physical  self,  so  to  speak,  and  let  it  lie  indolent; 
his  theory  is  that  thus  your  vitality  is  concentrated 
on  thought.  There  seems  something  to  be  said  for 
it,  when  once  you  have  learned  how  to  do  it. 

"Of  course,  in  order  to  get  anywhere,"  he  said, 
"you  must  go  through  contemplative  periods  and 
stages,  and  towards  the  end  of  the  journey,  I  fancy 
that  you  enter  into  an  existence  where  only  that  is 


178  UP  AND  DOWN 

possible.  But  before  that  comes,  you  have  to  know 
the  sacredness  of  common  things.  It's  like  this.  The 
first  stage  is  to  know  that  the  only  thing  worth 
our  consideration  is  the  reality  that  lies  behind  com- 
mon things:  it  is  then  that  you  think  them  worth- 
less and  disregard  them.  But  further  on  you  find 
out  that  they  aren't  common,  because  the  reality 
behind  permeates  them,  and  makes  them  sacred. 
Later,  if  you  ever  get  there,  you  find,  I  believe, 
that  in  your  union  with  the  reality  behind,  they 
cease  to  exist  again  for  you.  But,  good  heavens, 
what  miles  apart,  are  the  first  and  third  stages!  And 
the  danger  of  the  first  stage  is  that,  if  you  are  not 
careful,  you  imagine  it  to  be  the  same  as  the  third. 
''I  was  in  danger  of  getting  like  that,  living  in 
perfect  comfort  and  peace  on  that  adorable  island. 
Do  you  know  how  a  jelly  looks  the  day  after  a 
dinner-party,  how  it  is  fatigued,  and  lies  down  and 
gets  shapeless  and  soft?  I  might  have  stayed  in 
that  stage,  if  the  war  hadn't  summoned  me.  I  did 
not  consciously  want  material  things:  I  was  not 
greedy  or  lustful,  and  I  had  a  perfectly  conscious 
knowledge  that  God  existed  in  everything.  But  I 
didn't  reverence  things  for  that  reason,  nor  did  I 
mix  myself  up  in  them.  1  held  aloof,  and  was  con- 
tent to  think.  Then  came  the  war,  and  now  for 
nearly  fifteen  months  I  have  been  learning  to  get 
close  to  common  things,  to  see,  as  I  said,  that  the 
sacredness  of  their  origin  pervades  them.  It  doesn't 
lie  in  them,  tucked  away  in  some  secret  drawer, 
which  you  have  to  open  by  touching  a  spring.    The 


NOVEMBER,  1915  179 

spring  you  have  to  touch  is  in  yourself,  you  have 
to  open  your  own  perception  of  what  is  always  be- 
fore your  eyes.  It  doesn't  require  any  wit  or 
poetic  sense  to  perceive  it:  it  is  there,  a  plain  simple 
phenomenon.  But  in  it  is  the  answer  to  the  whole 
cosmic  conundrum,  for  there  lies  the  Love  that 
*moves  the  sun  and  the  other  stars!'  Theoretically 
I  knew  that,  but  not  practically. 

"Now,  after  a  good  deal  of  what  you  might  call 
spade-work,  I'm  beginning  to  feel  that,  first-hand. 
For  months  I  hated  the  drill,  and  the  sordidness  (so 
I  said)  and  the  life  in  which  you  are  so  seldom 
alone.  I  hated  the  rough  clothes,  and  the  heavy 
boots  and  the  food.  But  I  never  hated  the  other 
fellows:  I've  always  liked  people.  Then  when  I 
got  on  I  hated  the  accounts  I  had  to  do,  and  the 
supplies  I  had  to  weigh,  but  in  one  thing  I  never 
faltered,  and  that  was  in  the  desire  to  get  at  what 
lay  behind  it  all.  There  was  something  more  in 
it  than  the  fact  that  the  work  had  to  be  done  be- 
cause England  was  at  war  with  Germany,  and  be- 
cause I  wanted  to  help.  That  was  sufficient  to  bring 
me  out  of  Alatri,  and  it  would  have  been  sufficient 
to  carry  me  along,  even  if  there  had  been  nothing 
else  behind  it.  But  always  I  had  the  knowledge  of 
there  being  something  else  behind.  And  clearly  the 
life  I  was  leading  gave  me  admirable  conditions  for 
finding  that  out.  Everything  was  very  simple:  I 
had  no  independence;  I  had  to  do  what  I  was  told. 
You  may  bet  that  obedience  is  the  key  to  freedom. 

"There  were  days  of  storm  and  days  of  peace, 


180  UP  AND  DOWN 

of  course.  There  were  darknesses  in  which  one  was 
tempted  to  say  that  there  wasn't  anything  to  be 
perceived.  Some  persistent  devil  inside  me  kept  sug- 
gesting that  an  account-book  was  just  an  account- 
book,  and  a  rifle  nothing  more  than  a  rifle.  But  I 
still  clung  to  that  which  had  grown,  in  all  those 
years  at  Alatri,  to  be  a  matter  of  knowledge.  I 
knew  there  was  something  behind,  and  I  knew  what 
it  was,  though  the  mists  obscured  it,  just  as  when 
the  sea-fog  comes  down  in  the  winter  over  the 
island,  and  you  cannot  see  the  mainland  for  days 
together.  But  you  don't  seriously  question  whether 
the  mainland  is  there  because  you  don't  see  it.  A 
child  might:  if  you  told  a  child  that  the  mainland 
had  been  taken  away,  he  would  probably  accept 
what  you  said.  .  .  .  There  were  days  when  I 
doubted  everything,  not  only  the  reality  at  the 
back  of  it  all,  but  even  the  immediate  cause  fqr  my 
work,  namely,  that  the  regiment  was  part  of  the 
army  that  was  fighting  the  Germans,  and  that  so 
it  was  my  job  to  help. 

"And  then,  one  day  when  I  was  least  expecting 
it  or  consciously  thinking  of  it,  the  knowledge  came 
with  that  sense  of  realization  that  makes  all  the  dif- 
ference between  theoretical  and  practical  knowl- 
edge. I  was  among  the  stores,  rather  busy,  and 
suddenly  the  tins  of  petroleum  shone  with  God. 
Just  that." 

He  turned  his  handsome,  merry  face  to  me :  there 
was  no  solemnity  in  it,  it  was  as  if  he  had  told  me 
some  cheerful  piece  of  ordinary  news. 


NOVEMBER,  1915  181 

''Now  will  you  understand  me  when  I  say  that 
that  moment  was  in  no  sense  overwhelming,  nor 
did  it  interfere  in  the  slightest  degree  with  either 
the  common  work  of  the  day,  drill  and  accounts 
and  what  not,  or  with  the  common  diversions  of  the 
day?  It  did  not  even  give  them  a  new  meaning, 
for  I  had  known  for  years  that  the  meaning  was 
there ;  only,  it  had  not  been  to  me  a  matter  of  prac- 
tical knowledge.  It  was  like — weU,  you  know  how 
slow  I  am  at  learning  anything  on  the  piano,  but 
with  sufficient  industry  I  can  get  a  thing  by  heart 
at  last.  It  was  like  that:  it  was  like  the  first  oc- 
casion on  which  one  plays  it  by  heart.  It  did  not 
yet,  nor  does  it  now  get  between  me  and  all  the 
things  that  fill  the  day.  It  is  not  a  veil  drawn  be- 
tween me  and  them,  so  that  drudgery  and  little 
menial  offices  are  no  longer  worth  while:  it  is  just 
the  opposite :  it  is  as  if  a  veil  were  drawn  away,  and 
I  can  see  them  and  handle  them  more  clearly  and 
efficiently,  and  enjoy  them  infinitely  more.  This 
warm  fire  feels  more  delightfully  comfortable  than 
ever  a  fire  did.  I  take  more  pleasure  in  seeing  you 
sitting  there  near  me  than  ever  before.  There  was 
never  such  a  good  muffin  as  the  one  you  sent  up  to 
the  bath-room.  That's  only  natural,  if  you  come 
to  think  of  it.  It  would  be  a  very  odd  sort  of  illumi- 
nation, if  it  served  only  to  make  what  we  have  got 
to  do  obscure  or  tiresome  or  trivial.  Instead,  it  re- 
deems the  common  things  from  triviality.  It  takes 
weariness  out  of  the  world." 

"You  said  the  petroleum-tins  shone  with  God," 


182  UP  AND  DOWN 

I  said.  "Can  you  tell  me  about  that?  Was  it  a 
visible  Hght?" 

"I  wondered  if  you  would  ask  that,"  he  said,  "and 
I  wish  I  could  explain  it  better.  There  was  no 
visible  light,  nothing  like  physical  illumination 
round  them.  But  my  eyes  told  that  faculty  within 
me  which  truly  perceives,  that  they  shone.  What 
does  St.  Paul  call  it?  The  light  invisible,'  isn't  it? 
That  is  exactly  descriptive.  'The  light  invisible,  the 
uncreated  light.'  I  can't  tell  you  more  than  that, 
and  I  expect  that  it  is  only  to  be  understood  by 
those  who  have  seen  it.  I  am  quite  conscious  that 
my  description  of  it  must  mean  nothing.  I  have 
long  known  it  was  there,  and  so  have  you,  but  till 
I  perceived  it  I  had  no  idea  what  it  was  like." 

"There's  another  thing,"  said  I,  "you  are  going  out 
next  week  to  the  Dardanelles.  What  does  the  busi- 
ness of  killing  look  like  in  the  light  of  the  light  in- 
visible?" 

He  laughed  again. 

"It  hasn't  turned  me  into  a  conscientious  objector, 
if  you  mean  that,"  he  said.  "I  hate  the  notion  of 
shooting  jolly  funny  rabbits,  or  merry  partridges, 
though  I'm  quite  inconsistent  enough  to  eat  them 
when  they  are  shot — at  least,  not  rabbits:  I  would 
as  soon  eat  rats.  But  I  shall  do  my  best  to  kill 
as  many  Turks  as  I  possibly  can.  I  know  it's  right 
that  we  should  win  this  war.  I  was  never  more 
certain  about  anything.  The  Prussian  standpoint 
is  the  devil's  standpoint,  and  since  it's  our  business 
to  fight  the  devil,  we've  got  to  fight  the  Prussians 


NOVEMBER,  1915  183 

and  all  who  are  allied  with  them.  It  seems  a  miser- 
able way  of  fighting  the  devil,  to  go  potting  Turks. 
If  I  could  only  get  to  know  the  fellows  I  hope  I 
am  going  to  kill,  I  would  bet  that  I  should  find 
them  awfully  decent  chaps.  I  shouldn't  be  sur- 
prised if  they  would  shine,  too,  like  the  petroleum- 
tins.  But  there's  no  other  alternative.  No  doubt 
if  our  diplomatists  hadn't  been  such  apes,  we  should 
be  friends  with  the  Turks,  instead  of  being  their 
enemies,  but,  as  it  is,  there's  no  help  for  it.  I've 
no  patience  with  pacificists;  we've  got  to  fight,  unless 
we  choose  to  renounce  God.  As  for  the  man  who 
has  a  conscientious  objection  to  killing  anybody,  I 
think  you  will  find  very  often  that  he  has  a  con- 
scientious objection  to  being  killed.  I  haven't  any 
conscientious  objection  to  either.  I  shall  be  delighted 
to  kill  Turks,  and  I'm  sure  I  don't  grudge  them  the 
pleasure  of  killing  me." 

''But  you  think  they're  fighting  on  the  devil's 
side,"  I  objected.  "You  don't  want  to  be  downed 
by  the  devil?" 

"Oh,  they  don't  down  me  by  shooting  me,"  he 
said.  *'Also,  they  don't  think  they  are  in  league 
with  the  devil;  at  least,  we  must  give  them  the 
credit  of  not  thinking  so,  and  they've  got  every 
bit  as  good  a  right  to  their  view  as  I  have.  Lord! 
I  am  glad,  if  I  may  say  it  without  profanity,  that 
I'm  not  God.  Fancy  having  millions  and  millions 
of  prayers,  good  sincere  honest  prayers,  addressed 
to  you  every  day  from  opposite  sides,  entreating  you 
to  grant  supplications  for  victory!     Awfully  puz- 


184  UP  AND  DOWN 

zling,  for  Him!  You'd  know  what  excellent  fellows 
a  lot  of  our  enemies  are." 

The  clock  on  the  mantelpiece  chimed  at  this 
moment,  and  Francis  jumped  up  with  a  squeal. 

"Eight  o'clock  already!"  he  said.  "What  an  idiot 
you  are  for  letting  me  jaw  along  like  this!  I'm  not 
dressed  yet,  nor  are  you." 

"You  may  dine  in  a  dressing-gown  if  you  like,"  I 
said. 

"Thanks,  but  I  don't  want  to  in  the  least.  I  want 
to  put  on  the  fine  new  dress-clothes  which  I  left 
here  a  year  ago.  Do  dress  too;  let's  put  on  white 
ties  and  white  waistcoats,  and  be  smart,  and  pom- 
pous. I  love  the  feeling  of  being  dressed  up.  Per- 
haps we  won't  go  to  the  movies  afterwards;  what 
do  you  think?  We  can't  enjoy  ourselves  more  than 
sitting  in  this  jolly  room  and  talking.  At  least,  I 
can't;  I  don't  know  about  you.  Oh,  and  another 
thing.  You  have  a  day  off  to-morrow,  haven't  you, 
it  being  Saturday?  Let's  go  and  stay  in  the  country 
till  Monday.  I've  been  in  a  town  for  so  many 
months.  Let's  go  to  an  inn  somewhere  where  there 
are  downs  and  trees,  and  nobody  to  bother.  If 
we  stayed  with  people,  we  should  have  to  be  polite 
and  punctual.  I  don't  want  to  be  either.  I  don't 
want  to  hold  forth  about  being  a  Tommy,  except 
to  you.  Most  people  think  there's  something  heroic 
and  marvellous  about  it,  and  they  make  me  feel 
self-conscious.  It's  no  more  heroic  than  eating  when 
you're  hungry.    You  want  to:  you've  got  to:  your 


NOVEMBER,  1915  185 

inside  cries  out  for  food,  it  scolds  you  till  you  give 
it  some." 

We  put  Francis's  plan  into  execution  next  morn- 
ing, and  at  an  early  hour  left  town  for  a  certain 
inn,  of  which  I  had  pleasant .  memories,  on  the 
shore  of  the  great  open  sea  of  Ashdown  Forest,  to 
spend  three  days  there,  for  I  got  rid  of  my  work 
on  Monday.  St.  Martin  came  with  us  and  gave  us 
warm  windless  days  of  sun,  and  nights  with  a  scrap 
of  frost  tingling  from  the  stars,  so  that  in  the  morn- 
ing the  white  rime  turned  the  blades  of  grass  into 
spears  of  jewellery,  and  the  adorable  sharp  scent 
of  autumn  mornings  pricked  the  nostrils.  The  great 
joyful  forest  was  ablaze  with  the  red-gold  livery 
of  beech  trees,  and  the  pale  gold  of  birches,  and  holly 
trees  wore  clusters  of  scarlet  berries  among  their 
stiff  varnished  foliage.  Elsewhere  battalions  of 
pines  with  tawny  stems  defied  the  spirit  of  the  fall- 
ing leaf,  and  clad  the  hill-sides  with  tufts  of  green 
serge,  in  which  there  sounded  the  murmur  of  dis- 
tant seas.  Here  the  foot  slid  over  floors  of  fallen 
needles,  and  in  the  vaulted  darkness,  where  scarce 
a  ray  of  sun  filtered  down,  there  seemed  to  beat 
the  very  heart  of  the  forest,  and  we  went  softly, 
not  knowing  but  that  presently  some  sharp-eared 
faun  might  peep  round  a  tree-trunk,  or  a  flying 
drapery  betray  a  dryad  of  the  woods. 

Deeper  and  deeper  we  went  into  the  primeval 
aisles,  among  the  Druid  trees  that  stood,  finger  on 
lip,  for  perhaps  even  Pan  himself  had  lately  passed 


186  UP  AND  DOWN 

that  way,  and  they,  initiate,  had  looked  on  the  in- 
carnate spirit  of  Nature.  Then,  distantly,  the  gleam 
of  sunshine  between  the  trunks  would  show  the 
gates  of  this  temple  of  forest,  and  we  passed  out 
again  into  broad  open  spaces,  covered  with  the  rus- 
set of  bracken,  and  stiff  with  ling,  on  which  the 
spikes  of  minute  blossom  were  still  pink.  Here  we 
tramped  till  the  frosted  dews  had  melted  and  dried, 
and  sat  in  mossy  hollows,  where  gorse  was  still 
a-flower,  and  smelled  of  cocoa-nut  biscuits.  Across 
the  weald  the  long  line  of  South  Downs,  made  mil- 
lions of  years  ago  by  uncounted  myriads  of  live 
things,  was  thrust  up  like  some  heaving  shoulder 
of  a  marine  monster  above  the  waves.  It  seemed 
necessary  to  walk  along  that  heavenly  ridge,  and 
next  day,  we  drove  to  Lewes,  and  with  pockets  bulg- 
ing with  lunch,  climbed  on  to  that  fair  and  empty 
place.  There,  with  all  Sussex  lying  below  us,  and 
the  sea  stretched  like  a  brass  wire  along  the  edge 
of  the  land  to  the  south,  we  made  a  cache,  contain- 
ing the  record  of  the  expedition,  and  buried  it  in 
a  tin-box  below  a  certain  gnarled  stump  that  stood 
on  the  edge  of  the  steep  descent  on  to  the  plain. 
Francis  insisted  also  on  leaving  our  empty  wine 
bottle  there,  with  a  wisp  of  paper  inside  it,  on  which 
he  wrote:  "We  are  now  utterly  without  food,  and 
have  already  eaten  the  third  mate.  Tough,  but 
otherwise  excellent.  Latitude  unknown:  longitude 
unknown:  God  help  us!"  And  he  signed  it  with  the 
names  of  Queen  Adelaide  and  Marcus  Aurelius. 
Neither  he  nor  I  could  think  of  anything  sillier  than 


NOVEMBER,  1915  187 

this,  and  since,  when  you  are  being  silly,  you  have 
to  get  sillier  and  sillier,  or  else  you  are  involved  in 
anticlimaxes,  he  rolled  over  on  his  face  and  be- 
came serious  again. 

"Lord,  Lord,  how  I  love  life!"  he  said,  "in  what- 
ever form  it  manifests  itself.  I  love  these  great 
open  and  empty  places,  and  the  smile  of  the  indo- 
lent earth.  Great  kind  Mother,  she  is  getting  sleepy, 
and  will  soon  withdraw  all  her  thoughts  back  into 
herself  and  doze  and  dream  till  spring  awakens  her 
again.  She  will  make  no  more  birds  and  beasts  and 
flowers  yet  awhile,  for  those  are  the  thoughts  she 
puts  out,  but  collect  herself  into  herself,  hybernat- 
ing  in  the  infinite  cave  of  the  heavens.  All  the 
spring  and  the  summer  she  has  been  so  busy,  think- 
ing, thinking,  and  putting  forth  her  thoughts.  In 
the  autumn  she  lies  down  and  just  looks  at  what 
she  has  made,  and  in  the  winter  she  sleeps.  I  love 
that  life  of  the  earth,  which  is  so  curiously  inde- 
pendent of  ours,  pagan  in  its  essence,  you  would 
think,  and  taking  very  little  heed  of  the  children 
of  men  and  the  sons  of  God.  How  odd  she  must 
think  our  businesses  and  ambitions,  she  who  only 
makes,  and  feeds.  What  a  spendthrift,  too,  how 
lavish  of  life,  how  indifferent  to  pain,  and  death, 
and  all  the  ills  that  her  nurselings  make  for  them- 
selves.   She  doesn't  care,  bless  you." 

"You  called  her  kind  just  now,"  I  remarked. 

"Yes,  she  is  kind  to  joy,  because  joy  is  produc- 
tive. She  loves  health  and  vitality  and  love,  but  she 
has  no  use  for  anything  else.    It  is  only  one  aspect 


188  UP  AND  DOWN 

of  her,  however,  the  pagan  side,  which  sets  Pan 
aJButing  in  the  thickets.  But  what  she  makes  is 
always  greater  than  she  who  made  it.  She  gives  us 
and  maintains  for  us  till  death  our  physical  nature, 
and  yet  the  moment  she  has  given  it  us,  even  before 
perhaps,  it  has  passed  out  of  her  hands,  being  trans- 
fused with  God.  Then,  when  she  has  done  with  us, 
she  lets  death  overtake  us,  and  has  no  more  use  for 
us,  except  in  so  far  that  our  bodies  can  enrich  her 
soil.  She  does  not  know,  the  pagan  earth,  that 
death  is  only  an  incident  in  our  lives.  The  death 
of  our  body,  as  St.  Francis  says,  is  only  our  sister, 
for  whom  we  should  praise  God  just  as  much  as  for 
our  life,  or  the  sun  and  moon.  Really,  I  don't 
know  what  I  should  do,  how  I  should  behave,  if 
I  thought  it  ever  so  faintly  possible  that  death  was 
the  end  of  us.  Should  I  take  immense  care  of  my- 
self, so  as  to  put  off  that  end  as  long  as  possible, 
and  in  the  interval  grab  at  every  pleasure  and  delight 
I  could  find?  I  don't  think  so.  If  I  thought  that 
death  was  the  end,  I  think  I  should  kill  myself 
instantly,  out  of  sheer  boredom.  All  the  bubble 
would  have  gone  out  of  the  champagne.  I  love  all 
the  pleasures  and  interests  of  life  just  because  they 
are  part  of  an  infinitely  bigger  affair.  If  there  wasn't 
that  within  them,  I  don't  think  I  should  care  about 
them." 

"But  if  they  are  only  part  of  the  bigger  thing," 
said  I,  "why  don't  we  kill  ourselves  at  once,  in  order 
to  get  to  the  bigger  thing?" 

"Surely  for  a  very  good  reason,  namely,  that  what- 


NOVEMBER,  1915  189 

ever  life  lies  beyond,  it  cannot  be  this  life  again. 
And  this  life  is  such  awful  fun:  I  want  lots  of  it. 
But  it  doesn't  rank  in  the  same  class  with  the 
other.  I  mean  that  no  sensible  fellow  will  want  to 
prolong  this  at  the  expense  of  what  comes  after. 
Much  as  we  like  it,  we  are  perfectly  willing  to  throw 
it  away  if  we  are  shown  a  sufficiently  good  cause  to 
throw  it  away  for.  It's  like  a  tooth:  have  it  out  if 
it  aches.  And  life  would  ache  abominably  if  we 
clung  to  it  unworthily." 

Suddenly  I  felt  horribly  depressed. 

"Oh,  Francis,  don't  die  at  the  Dardanelles,"  I 
said. 

''I  haven't  the  slightest  intention  of  doing  so.  I 
sincerely  hope  I  shall  do  nothing  of  the  sort.  But 
if  I  do,  mind  you  remember  that  I  know  it  is  only 
an  incident  in  life.  As  we  sit  here,  secure  in  the 
sun  and  the  safety^  it  is  easy  enough  to  realize  that. 
But  it  is  harder  to  realize  it  when  it  happens  to 
someone  you  like,  and  people  are  apt  to  talk  rot 
about  the  cruel  cutting-short  of  a  bright  young  life. 
My  bright  middle-aged  life  mustn't  rouse  these  silly 
reflections,  please,  if  it's  cut  off.  They  are  unreal: 
there  is  a  touch  of  cant  about  them.    So  promise!" 

"If  you'll  promise  not  to  die,  I'll  promise  not  to 
be  vexed  at  your  death.  Besides,  you  aren't  middle- 
aged;  you're  about  fourteen." 

"Oh,  I  hope  I'm  younger  now  at  thirty-five  than 
I  was  when  I  was  fourteen.  I  used  to  be  terribly 
serious  at  fourteen,  and  think  about  my  soul  in  a 
way  that  was  positively  sickening.     I  wonder  my 


190  UP  AND  DOWN 

bright  young  life  wasn't  cut  short  by  a  spasm  of 
self-edification.  I  was  a  prig,  and  prigs  are  the 
oldest  people  in  the  world.  They  are  older  than 
the  rocks  they  sit  among,  as  Mr.  Pater  said,  and 
have  been  dead  many  times.  You  didn't  know  me 
then,  thank  God." 

"Were  you  very  beastly?" 

"Yes,  quite  horrible,  and  so  old.  Easily  old  enough 
to  be  my  own  father  now,  if  that's  what  Words- 
worth means  when  he  says  the  child  is  father  to 
the  man.  I  thought  a  lot  about  my  soul,  and  took 
great  care  of  it,  and  wrapped  it  up.  In  fact,  I  set 
about  everything  entirely  the  wrong  way.  What 
does  Thomas  a  Kempis  say,  do  you  remember?  That 
a  man  must  forsake  himself,  and  go  wholly  from 
himself,  and  retain  nothing  out  of  self-love.  He 
must  give  up  his  soul  too,  for  it  is  only  by  giving 
it  up  that  he  avoids  losing  it.  .  .  ." 

He  turned  over  again  on  his  face,  sniffing  a  sprig 
of  thyme  that  still  lingered  into  November. 

"And  yet,  oh,  how  I  love  all  the  jolly  things  in 
the  world!"  he  said;  "but  I  don't  want  them  to  be 
mine,  and  I  don't  think  that  I  am  entangled  in 
them.  Surely  it  is  right  to  love  them  if  you  don't 
cling  to  them.  I  love  the  smile  of  the  earth  when  she 
wakes  in  spring,  and  puts  forth  her  thoughts  again. 
When  she  thinks  about  hawthorn,  she  thinks  in  little 
squibs  of  gr^n  leaf,  when  she  thinks  about  birds 
she  thinks  in  terms  of  nightingale-song,  or  when 
she  thinks  about  crocuses  she  sees  her  thoughts  ex- 
pressed   in    yellow    chalices,    with    pollen-coated 


NOVEMBER,  1915  191 

tongue.  She  thinks  she  has  had  enough  of  the  grey 
winter- withered  grass,  and,  lo,  the  phalanxes  of 
minute  green  spears  charge  and  rout  it.  She  thinks 
in  the  scent  of  wall-flowers,  and  the  swift  running 
of  lizards  on  the  stone-walls,  and  pinks  of  peach- 
blossom,  and  foam  of  orchid-flower.  My  goodness, 
what  a  poet  she  is!'' 

"And  you  aren't  attached  to  all  that?"  I  asked. 

"Of  course  I  like  it  tremendously,  but  it  doesn't 
entangle  me  any  more.  But  I  took  years  to  disen- 
tangle myself,  all  those  years  when  you  thought  I 
was  being  so  lazy  and  ineffective  in  Alatri.  Inef- 
fective I  was,  no  one  ever  made  less  of  a  splash 
than  I  have  done;  but  lazy  I  wasn't.  I  thought, 
and  I  thought,  and  unconsciously  to  myself,  while 
I  was  sunk,  as  I  imagined,  in  a  stupor  of  purring 
content  with  the  world,  this  war  woke  me  up,  and, 
as  you  know,  I  found  I  wan't  entangled.  But  I 
have  learned  such  a  lot  this  year.  I  always  liked 
people:  I  liked  their  funny  ridiculous  ways,  their 
queernesses  and  their  attractions.  But  I  never  got 
into  them  before.  People  are  like  oranges:  the  rind 
smells  delicious,  you  like  them  first  for  the  rind. 
Then  just  inside  the  rind  you  find  that  fluffy  white 
stuff,  but  inside  of  all  is  the  substance  of  them,  in 
which  lies  their  unity  with  God.  There  is  this,  too : 
when  you  get  down  to  the  fruit,  you  find  that  it 
has  the  same  savour  as  the  rind.  I  take  it  that 
the  attraction  of  people,  the  thing  you  love  them 
for,  is  the  first  thing  you  perceive  about  them,  the 
aromatic  rind.    It's  a  hint  of  what  is  within,  if  you 


192  UP  AND  DOWN 

get  through  their  fluffy  part.  You  find  first  of  all  the 
emanation  of  their  real  selves,  next  their  funny  odd 
ways,  and  finally  themselves.  Deep  in  the  heart  of 
everyone  you  find  what  seemed  at  first  their  most 
superficial  qualities.  That's  an  excursus  by  the 
way;  think  it  out  for  yourself. '^ 

The  sun  was  already  wheeling  westwards,  and 
presently  after,  as  we  had  half  a  dozen  miles  of  this 
high  down-land  to  traverse,  we  got  up  and  went 
on  our  way.  Here  and  there  a  copse  of  flaming 
beech  climbed  like  stealthy  fire  up  from  the  weald 
on  to  this  roof  of  South  England,  on  the  ridge  of 
which  we  walked;  but  the  prevalent  wind  from  the 
sea  had  so  continuously  blown  their  branches  in 
one  direction  that  now  they  grew  there,  brushed 
back  in  permanence,  as  Francis  suggested,  like  the 
hair  of  a  Knut.  Northwards  and  far  below  the 
weald  stretched  into  misty  distances,  laid  out  like 
a  map,  with  here  and  there  a  pond,  here  a  group 
of  clustered  houses,  while  a  moving  plume  of  steam 
marked  the  passage  of  a  train.  Mile  after  mile 
of  springy  turf  we  traversed,  empty  and  yellowing 
and  uniform,  save  where  a  patch  of  brambles  lay 
dark,  like  the  shadow  from  a  cloud.  Once  or  twice 
we  passed  a  dew-pond  dug  in  the  chalk,  but  other- 
wise in  all  those  miles  we  found  no  sign  up  here 
on  the  heights  of  the  fretful  ways  and  works  of 
man.  All  was  untouched  and  antique:  a  thousand 
years  had  wrought  no  more  change  here  than  on 
the  liquid  plain  of  the  sea.  A  steady  westerly 
breeze  met  us  all  the  way,  warmed  with  the  leagues 


NOVEMBER,  1915  193 

of  autumn  sunshine  through  which  it  had  travelled 
all  day,  and  it  streamed  past  us  like  some  quiet  flow- 
ing river  out  of  the  eternal  reservoir  of  the  sky. 
And  never,  even  in  children,  round  whom  there  still 
trail  the  clouds  of  glory,  have  I  seen  such  ecstatic 
and  natural  enjoyment  as  was  Francis's.  Around 
them,  perhaps,  linger  the  lights  that  play  outside 
the  prison-house,  but  to  him,  it  seemed  that  into 
the  prison-house  itself  there  streamed  in  such  a  jubi- 
lation of  sunshine  that  every  vestige  of  shade  was 
banished.  Like  the  petroleum- tins,  when  first  illu- 
mination had  come  to  him,  the  whole  world  shone 
with  God,  and  that  in  no  vague  and  mystical  mauT 
ner,  but  with  a  defined  and  comprehended  bright- 
ness. Here  was  no  dream-like  mysticism,  no  indif- 
ferent contemplation  like  that  of  the  Quietists,  but 
an  active  and  ecstatic  enjoyment,  eager  and  alert, 
and  altogther  human.  He  moved  in  a  fairyland, 
the  magic  of  which  was  not  imaginary  and  fabu- 
lous; the  spell  lay  in  the  very  fact  that  it  was  real. 
He  was  convinced  by  the  conviction  that  comes  from 
personal  experience:  the  glory  that  enveloped  the 
world  was  as  certain  as  the  streaming  wind  and  the 
pervasion  of  the  autumn  sun. 

It  was  no  haphazard  intoxication  of  animal 
spirits  that  possessed  him,  no  wild  primal  delight 
in  health  and  physical  vigour,  it  was  a  joy  that 
had  had  its  birth  in  thought  and  contemplation, 
and  had  passed  through  dark  places  and  deserts. 
But,  even  as  the  sunlight  of  ages  past  sleeps  in 
seams  of  coal,  ready  to  burst  into  blaze,  so  through 


194  UP  AND  DOWN 

darknesses  and  doubts  had  passed  the  potential  sun- 
light of  his  soul,  black,  you  would  say,  and  dor- 
mant, but  alive  and  pregnant  with  flame,  when  the 
finger  of  God  touched  it  into  illumination.  For  him 
no  longer  in  gloomy  recesses  sat  Pan,  the  incarnate 
aspect  of  the  cruelty  and  the  lust  of  Nature,  the 
sight  of  whom  meant  death  to  the  seer,  but  over 
all  the  world  shone  the  face  of  Christ,  Who,  by  the 
one  oblation  of  Himself,  had  transfused  His  divine 
nature  into  all  that  lived  and  moved.  This  was  no 
fact  just  accepted,  and  taken  for  granted:  it  was 
the  light  from  which  sprang  all  his  joy  of  life,  the 
one  central  and  experienced  truth  which  made  all 
common  things  sacred,  and  opened  for  him,  as  for 
all  mystics  who  have  attained  the  first  illumination, 
the  gates  of  pearl  within  which  shines  the  Heavenly 
Kingdom.  This  was  no  visionary  place:  it  stood 
solid  about  him,  an  Earthly  Paradise  no  less  than 
a  heavenly,  and  men  and  women  were  its  citizens, 
the  hills  and  valleys,  the  birds  and  beasts  of  this 
actual  world  were  of  it,  the  blaze  of  the  westering 
sun  lit  it,  and  this  wind  from  the  West  streamed 
over  it.  And  yet  it  was  the  actual  kingdom  of 
heaven. 

Francis  told  me  that  day  how  he  had  attained  to 
where  he  stood.  It  was  by  no  vague  inactive  pas- 
sivity, but  by  stern  and  unremitting  training  of 
the  mind  and  spirit.  He  had  learned  by  hard  work, 
first  of  all,  to  concentrate  his  mind  on  some  given 
concrete  object,  to  the  exclusion  of  all  other  objects, 
forcing  himself,  as  he  put  it,  ''to  flow  into  this  one 


NOVEMBER,  1915  195 

thing."  By  slow  degrees  he  had  so  cultivated  this 
power  that  he  was  able  at  last  to  be  conscious  of 
nothing  else  than  that  on  which  he  fixed  his  atten- 
tion, making  all  his  faculties  of  perception  concen- 
trate upon  it.  One  of  the  objects  of  his  meditation 
had  often  been  the  stone  pine  in  our  garden  at 
Alatri,  and  "opening  himself  to  it,"  as  he  said,  he 
saw  it  not  only  as  it  was  in  shape  and  form,  but 
into  his  mind  were  conveyed  its  whole  nature  and 
formation;  not  by  imagining  them,  so  it  seemed  to 
him,  for  himself,  but  by  receiving  suggestions  from 
outside.  He  felt  it  growing  from  the  pine-seed  of 
a  cone  that  had  dropped  there;  he  felt  it  as  a  sapling, 
and  knew  how  its  roots  were  groping  their  ways 
underground,  one  to  the  north,  another  to  the  south, 
to  anchor  it  from  the  stress  of  winds.  He  felt  the 
word  go  forth  among  the  spiders  and  creeping  things 
that  here  was  a  new  city  a-building  for  their  habi- 
tations. Out  of  the  sapling  stage  it  passed  into 
mature  life,  and  stripped  itself  of  its  lower  branches, 
concentrating  its  energy  on  its  crown  of  foliage.  The 
soft  sappy  bark  hardened  itself  to  resist  the  rains, 
the  roots  spread  further  and  further,  and  burrowed 
more  deeply:  the  murmur  of  sea  began  to  nest  in 
its  branches,  and  its  shadow  spread  like  a  pool 
around  it.  It  grew  fruitful  with  cones  that  opened 
themselves  so  that  its  seed  might  ripen;  it  became 
a  Town  of  fertility.  All  this  came,  not  student- 
wise,  but  from  eager  meditation,  a  vision  evoked 
not  from  within,  but  seen  through  the  open  win- 


196  UP  AND  DOWN 

dows  of  his  mind.     A  new  mode  of  sight  dawned 
on  him. 

From  meditation  on  concrete  and  visible  things  he 
passed  to  meditation  on  abstract  qualities,  which 
clothed  themselves  in  images.  He  saw  Mercy,  a 
woman  with  hands  of  compassion,  touching  and  re- 
mitting the  debts  of  the  crowd  that  brought  the 
penalties  they  had  incurred:  he  saw  Truth,  nude 
and  splendid,  standing  on  the  beach,  fresh  from  the 
sea,  with  a  smile  for  those  who  ignorantly  feared 
him,  and  anger  blazing  from  his  eyes  for  those  who 
tried  to  hide  from  him,  and  hands  of  love  for  those 
who  came  to  him.  But  such  visions  never  came 
to  the  scope  of  his  physical  sight,  only  by  interior 
vision  did  he  see  Bercy  bending  to  him,  and  Truth 
holding  out  a  strong  and  tender  hand.  Their  pres- 
ences lived  with  him,  and  the  gradual  realization 
of  them  caused  a  shining  company  to  stand  around 
him. 

But  they  were  not  what  he  sought:  he  sought 
that  which  lay  behind  them,  that  of  which,  for  all 
their  splendour,  they  were  but  the  pale  symbols  and 
imperfect  expressions.  They  were  the  heralds  of 
the  King,  who  attended  in  his  presence-chamber, 
and  came  forth  into  the  world  radiant  with  his  to- 
kens. There  were  strange  presences  among  them: 
there  came  Sorrow  with  bowed  head,  and  Pain  with 
pierced  hands,  and  that  darkness  of  the  soul  which 
still  refuses  to  disbelieve  in  light.  Often  he  turned 
his  face  from  these  storm-vexed  visitants,  crying 
out  that  they  were  but  phantoms  of  the  pit,  and  yet 


NOVEMBER,  1915  197 

not  quite  endorsing  his  rejection  of  them,  for  their 
wounded  hands  shone,  and  there  lurked  a  secret 
behind  the  tragedy  of  their  faces.  .  .  . 

We  had  come  to  the  end  of  the  ridge,  and  must 
descend  into  the  plain  below  us.  The  sun  had  just 
set,  and  the  wind  that  still  blew  steadily  from  the 
West  held  its  breath  for  a  moment. 
,'They  took  their  places  there,"  said  Francis,  **until 
they  became  friendly  and  glorious,  and  I  did  not 
fear  them  any  longer.  I  knew  what  they  repre- 
sented, of  what  they  were  the  symbols.  Just  as  I 
had  contemplated  the  stone  pine  till  I  saw  what  was 
the  nature  from  which  it  sprang,  so  I  contemplated 
Sorrow  and  Doubt,  till  I  saw  that  they  had  come 
from  the  Garden  of  Gethsemane.  They  are  as  holy 
as  Mercy  or  Truth,  and  their  touch  sanctifies  all  the 
pain  and  sorrow  that  you  and  I  and  the  whole  world 
can  ever  feel.  I  dwelt  within  them.  I  learned  to 
love  them.  I  learned  also  to  do  the  daily  tasks 
that  were  mine  no  longer  with  any  sense  of  the 
trivaUt  yto  them  or  with  the  notion  that  I  might 
have  been  better  employed  on  larger  things.  But 
for  a  long  time,  employed  on  this  common  round, 
nothing  more  happened:  I  just  went  on  doing  them, 
believing  that  they  were  part  of  a  great  whole,  but 
not,  I  may  say,  energetically  conscious  of  it.  Then 
one  day,  as  I  told  you,  I  saw  God  shining  from  the 
petroleum-tins  and  the  shelves  of  the  store." 

There  are  certain  moment^  in  one's  life  that  are 
imperishably  photographed  on  the  mind,  and  will 


198  UP  AND  DOWN 

live  there  unblurred  and  unfaded  till  the  end.  I 
think  the  reason  for  this  (when  so  much  that  seemed 
important  at  the  time,  constantly  fades  from  one's 
memory)  is  that  in  some  way,  great  or  small,  they 
mark  the  advent  of  a  new  perception,  and  this 
sense  of  enlightenment  gives  them  their  everlast- 
ing quality.  They  are  thus  more  commonly  asso- 
ciated with  childish  days,  when  discoveries  are  of 
more  frequent  occurrence  than  is  the  case  in  later 
years.  Certainly  now  the  smell  of  lilac  is  hugely 
Bignificant  to  me  because  of  that  one  moment  when, 
at  the  exploring  age  of  five,  I  was  first  consciously 
aware  of  it.  It  was  time  to  go  to  bed,  though  the 
sunlight  still  lay  level  across  the  garden  where  we 
children  played,  and  the  nurse  who  had  come  to 
fetch  us  in,  relented,  and  gave  us  five  minutes'  grace, 
the  granting  of  which  at  that  moment  seemed  to 
endow  one  with  all  that  was  really  desirable  in  life. 
Simultaneously  the  evening  breeze  disentangled  the 
web  of  fragrance  from  the  lilac  bush  near  which  I 
stood,  and  cast  it  over  me,  so  that,  imperishable  to 
this  day,  the  scent  of  it  is  mixed  up  in  my  mind 
with  a  mood  of  ecstatic  happiness.  What  went  be- 
fore that,  what  had  been  the  history  of  the  after- 
noon, or  what  was  the  history  of  the  days  that 
followed,  has  quite  gone,  but  vignetted  for  ever  for 
me  is  the  smell  of  the  lilac  bush  and  the  rapture  of 
five  minutes  more  play.  The  first  conscious  sight 
of  the  sea,  lying  grey  and  quiet  beneath  a  low  sky, 
is  another  such  picture,  and  another  such,  I  am  sure, 
will  be  the  sight  of  Francis's  face  as  he  stood  there 


NOVEMBER,  1915  199 

facing  westwards,  with  the  glow  of  molten  clouds 
on  it,  and  with  the  wind  just  stirring  his  hair,  as 
he  stood  bare-headed,  and  spoke  those  last  words. 
The  memory  of  our  walk  that  day  may  grow  dim, 
much  may  get  blurred  an  dindistinct  in  my  mind, 
but  his  face  then,  alight  with  joy,  not  solemn  joy 
at  all,  but  sheer  human  happiness,  will  live  to  me 
in  the  manner  of  the  lilac-scent,  and  the  first  sight 
of  the  sea.  It  was  new;  never  before  had  I  seen 
so  complete  an  exuberance,  so  unshadowed  a  bliss. 

We  returned  to  town  next  morning.    Two  daya 
later  he  rejoined  his  regiment. 


DECEMBER,  1915. 

Duty  under  a  somewhat  threadbare  disguise  of 
pleasure  has  the  upper  hand  just  now,  in  this  ener- 
getic city,  and  we  spend  a  large  number  of  our 
afternoons  each  week  seated  in  half-guinea  and 
guinea  stalls,  and  watch  delightful  entertainments 
at  theatres  or  listen  to  concerts  at  private  houses, 
got  up  for  the  benefit  of  some  most  deserving  char- 
ity, and  for  the  really  opulent  there  are  seats  at  three 
or  five  guineas.  These  entertainments  are  as  de- 
lightful as  they  are  long,  and  we  have  an  oppor- 
tunity two  or  three  times  a  week  of  seeing  the 
greater  part  of  our  prominent  actors  and  actresses, 
and  hearing  the  most  accomplished  singers  and 
players  on  all  or  more  than  all  of  the  musical  instru- 
ments known  to  Nebuchadnezzar  pour  forth  a  prac- 
tically endless  stream  of  melody.  Certaintly  it  is  a 
great  pleasure  to  hear  these  delightful  things,  but, 
as  I  have  said,  it  is  really  duty  that  prompts  us 
to  live  for  pleasure,  for  the  pleasure,  by  incessant 
wear,  is  getting  a  little  thin.  We  should  not  dream 
of  spending  so  much  on  seats  in  theatres  if  we  were 
not  contributing  to  a  cause.  Often  tea  of  the  most 
elaborate  and  substantial  style  is  thrown  in,  and  thus 
our  bodies  as  well  as  our  minds  are  sumptuously 
catered  for.    Soon,  I  suppose,  when  we  have  once 

200 


DECEMBER,  1915  201 

freed  our  minds  from  the  nightmare  of  Zeppelins, 
we  shall  have  these  entertainments  in  the  evening 
with  dinner  thrown  in.  The  only  little  drawback 
connected  with  them  is  concerned  with  the  matter 
of  tickets.  Naturally  you  do  not  want  to  go  alone, 
and  in  consequence,  when  you  are  asked  to  take 
tickets  you  take  two  guinea  ones  if  you  are  rich, 
and  if  not  two  half-guinea  ones.  There  is  no  ques- 
tion of  refusing.  You  have  got  to.  But  it  is  not  so 
easy  as  you  would  imagine  to  get  somebody  to  go 
with  you  to  these  perpetual  feasts  of  histrionic  and 
vocal  talent,  for  everyone  else  has  already  taken 
two  tickets,  and  is  eagerly  hunting  for  a  companion 
at  these  entertainments  on  behalf  of  funds  for  Ser- 
bians, Russians,  French,  Italians,  Red  Cross,  eggs 
for  hospitals,  smokes  for  sailors,  soup  kitchens,  dis- 
abled horses,  bandages,  kit-bags,  mine-sweepers, 
cough  lozenges,  for  aeroplanists,  woollen  mufflers, 
and  all  the  multifarious  needs  of  those  who  are  or 
have  been  taking  a  hand  in  the  fight.  Indeed,  some- 
times I  think  those  entertainments  are  a  little  over- 
done, for  a  responsible  admiral  told  me  the  other  day 
that  if  any  more  woollen  mufflers  were  sent  to  the 
fleet  it  would  asuredly  sink,  which  would  be  a  very 
disastrous  consequence  of  too  ardent  a  spirit  of 
charity.  But  till  the  fleet  sinks  under  the  woollies 
that  are  poured  into  it,  and  the  kitchens  are  so 
flooded  with  soup  as  to  be  untenable,  I  suppose  we 
shall  continue  to  take  two  stalls  and  wildly  hunt 
about  for  someone  to  occupy  the  second,  between 
the  hours  of  two  and  seven-thirty.     But  whether 


202  UP  AND  DOWN 

there  is  a  theatrical  entertainment  or  not  on  any 
particular  day,  it  is  sure  to  be  a  flag  day.  You 
need  not  buy  two  flags,  though  you  have  been 
obliged  to  take  two  stalls — until  you  have  lost  the 
first  one.  But  it  is  as  essential  as  breathing  to 
buy  one  flog,  if  you  propose  to  go  out  of  doors  at 
all,  and  on  the  whole  it  is  wiser  to  buy  your  deco- 
ration from  the  first  seller  that  you  see.  It  is 
your  ransom;  the  jayment  of  this  amiable  black- 
mail ensures  your  unmolested  passage  through 
the  streets.  True,  for  a  time,  you  can  play  a  very 
pretty  game  which  consists  in  crossing  the  street 
when  you  see  a  flag-seller  imminent,  and  proceeding 
along  the  opposite  pavement.  Soon  another  flag- 
seller  will  be  imminent  there  also,  upon  the  approach 
of  whom  you  cross  back  again  to  your  original  pave- 
ment. But  sooner  or  later  you  are  bound  to  be 
caught:  a  van  or  an  omnibus  obstructs  the  clear  view 
of  the  other  side  of  the  street,  and  after  being 
heavily  splashed  with  mud  from  the  roadway,  you 
regain  the  pavement  only  to  find  there  is  another 
flag-seller  who  has  been  in  ambush  behind  the  'bus 
that  has  splashed  you.  If  you  are  urgently  in  need 
of  exercise  you  can  step  back  again  before  encoun- 
tering the  privateer,  but  you  know  that  sooner  or 
later  you  will  have  to  buy  a  flag,  and  on  the  whole  it 
is  wiser  to  buy  it  at  once,  and  take  your  exercise 
with  an  untroubled  mind,  and  a  small  garish  deco- 
ration in  your  buttonhole.  The  flag-sellers  for  the 
most  part,  are  elegant  young  females,  who  appear 
to  enjoy  this  unbridled  licence  to  their  pillaging  pro- 


DECEMBER,  1915  203 

pensities,  and  as  long  as  they  enjoy  it,  I  suppose 
flag-days  will  go  on.  But  it  would  be  simpler  and 
fairer  to  add  a  penny  to  the  income-tax,  and  divide 
it  in  just  proportions  between  these  harpy  charities. 
Or,  if  that  is  too  involuntary  a  method  of  providing 
funds  for  admirable  objects,  I  should  suggest  that 
every  seller  of  flags,  should,  in  return  for  the  privi- 
lege of  helping  in  such  good  causes,  start  her  own 
collection-box  with  the  donation  of  one  sovereign 
from  herself.  Then  the  beleaguered  foot-passenger 
would  feel  that  he  was  giving  to  no  one  who  had  the 
cause  for  which  she  worked  really  at  heart. 

Just  as  patriotism  has  become  a  feature  in  the 
streets,  so  the  same  motif  has  made  its  appearance  in 
the  realms  of  art,  and  at  these  entertainments  of 
which  I  have  spoken,  there  has  sprung  up  a  new 
form  of  dramatic  and  topical  representation.  Some- 
times it  takes  the  form  of  a  skit,  and  the  light  side 
of  committees  is  humorously  put  before  us,  but  more 
often  the  author,  with  a  deadlier  and  more  serious 
aim,  shows  us  in  symbolical  form  the  Sublimity  of 
Patriotism.  Somehow  these  elevating  dramas  make 
me  blush.  I  am  not  ashamed  of  being  patriotic, 
but  I  canont  bear  to  see  patriotism  set  to  slow  music 
in  front  of  the  footlights,  and  in  the  presence  of 
those  blue-coated  men  with  crutches  or  arms  in 
slings.  The  general  audience  feel  it  too,  and  as  the 
curtain  goes  up  for  the  patriotic  sketch,  an  uncom- 
fortable fidgety  silence  invariably  settles  down  on 


204  UP  AND  DOWN 

the  house.     The  manner  of  the  drama  is  usually 
somewhat  in  the  following  style: 

Britannia,  in  scarlet  with  a  gold  crown,  is  seated 
in  the  centre  of  the  stage,  and  on  each  side  of  her 
is  a  row  of  typical  female  figures,  whom  she  ad- 
dresses collectively  as  "Sisters"  or  "Children."  In 
a  few  rhyming  lines  she  gives  vent  to  some  noble 
sentiments  about  the  war,  and  calls  on  each  in  turn 
to  express  her  opinion.  As  these  assembled  females 
represent  Faith,  Hope,  Belgium,  Mother,  Wife, 
Sweetheart,  Serbia,  Child,  Justice,  Mercy,  Russia, 
Victory  and  Peace,  a  very  pleasant  variety  of  senti- 
ments is  expressed.  Faith  brandishes  a  sword  with 
an  ingenious  arrangements  by  which  electric  lights 
spring  out  along  the  blade,  and  expresses  complete 
confidence  in  the  righteousness  of  the  cause  for 
which  she  unsheathed  it.  Hope  looks  forward  to  a 
bright  dawn,  and  fixes  her  eyes  dreamily  on  the 
Royal  Box.  Belgium,  giving  way  to  very  proper 
emotion  when  she  mentions  Namur  (rhyming  to 
"poor"),  sinks  back  on  her  chair,  and  Britannia,  dis- 
mounting from  her  throne,  lays  a  hand  on  her  shoul- 
der and  kisses  her  hair.  She  then  gives  Belgium 
into  the  care  of  Faith,  and  dashing  away  a  tear,  re- 
sumes her  throne,  and  asks  Mother  what  she  has  to 
say.  Mother  and  Wife  then  stand  hand  in  hand  and 
assure  Britannia  that  they  have  sent  their  son  and 
husband  to  the  war  because  it  was  their  duty  to 
send  him  and  his  to  go.  Mother  knows  the  right- 
eousness of  the  cause.  Faith  crosses,  presses  the 
electric  light,  and  with  illuminated  sword  in  hand, 


DECEMBER,  1915  205 

kisses  Mother.  Mother  kisses  Faith.  Wife  knows 
it  too,  and  looks  forward  to  the  bright  dawn  of  which 
Hope  has  spoken  (Hope  crosses  and  embraces  Wife: 
momentary  Tableau,  accompanied  on  the  orchestra 
by  "Land  of  Hope  and  Glory."  Britannia  rises  and 
bows  to  the  audience). 

When  the  applause  has  subsided,  they  resume, 
and  Britannia  calls  on  Sweetheart.  Sweetheart 
trips  out  into  the  front  of  the  stage,  and  goes 
through  a  little  pantomime  alone,  but  it  is  at  once 
apparent  that  in  her  imagination  there  is  a  male 
figure  there.  There  are  little  embracings:  she 
promises  the  unseen  figure  not  to  cry  any  more,  but 
to  write  to  him  (B.E.F.)  every  day. 

Britannia  calls  her,  "Brave  girl." 

Britannia  (pointing  to  Child,  with  a  voice  already 
beginning  to  break  with  emotion) :  "And  you,  my 
little  one?" 

Long  pause. 

Child  (in  a  high  treble) :  "Oh,  Mrs.  Britannia,  do 
let  Daddy  come  home  soon!"  (Pause.)  "Won't  he 
come  home  soon,  Mrs.  Britannia?" 

Britannia  (choking):  "My  little  one!"  (Sobs.) 
"My  little  one!" 

(Faith,  Hope,  Mother,  etc.,  all  turn  aside  and  hide 
their  faces,  with  convulsive  movements  of  their 
shoulders.  Eventually  Hope  looks  firmly  up  at  the 
Royal  Box,  and  a  loud  click  is  heard  as  Faith  tries 
to  light  the  electric  sword.  As  it  is  out  of  order,  she 
merely  holds  it  up.  This  is  the  cue  for  the  play  to 
proceed.) 


206  UP  AND  DOWN 

Justice  is  rather  fierce,  and  as  she  speaks  about  an 
eye  for  an  eye  and  a  tooth  for  a  tooth,  Britannia 
rises  and  with  a  majestic  look  sets  her  teeth  and 
flashes  her  eyes.  Mercy  intervenes,  telling  Justice 
that  they  are  sisters,  Justice  acknowledges  the  soft 
impeachment,  and  hides  her  head  on  Mercy's  shoul- 
der, who  reminds  her  that  the  quality  of  Mercy  is 
twice  blest,  which  is  very  pleasant  for  her  as  she  is 
Mercy. 

Rolls  of  drum  in  the  orchestra  punctuate  what 
Victory  has  to  say,  which  is  just  as  easily  described 
as  imagined,  but  is  scarcely  worth  description. 
Then  a  soft  smile  irradiates  Britannia's  face,  and 
she  says: 

"And  now  that  Victory's  won  I  call 
The  fairest  sister  of  you  all." 

On  which  Peace  advances  and  crowns  Britannia 
with  a  green  wreath,  and  a  small  stuffed  pigeon  de- 
scends from  above  Britannia's  head  and  hovers. 
The  curtain  descends  slowly  to  long  soft  chords  on 
the  orchestra.  The  applause  of  relief  sounds  faintly 
from  various  quarters  of  the  house.  The  curtain 
instantly  ascends  again  and  shows  the  same  picture. 
It  goes  up  and  down  five  or  six  times.  Then  it 
parts,  and  Britannia  comes  out  and  bows  to  the 
house.  She  smiles  at  someone  behind  the  curtain, 
and  extends  her  hand.  A  small  man  in  a  frock  coat 
and  an  expression  of  abject  misery  comes  out  and 
clutches  it.  The  audience  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  he  must  be  the  author,  and  with  the  amiable 


DECEMBER,  1915  207 

idea  of  putting  him  out  of  his  misery  applaud  again. 
On  which  Britannia  advances  a  little  to  the  left 
and  again  beckons  behind  the  curtain.  On  which 
Child  runs  out,  and  (as  previously  instructed)  after 
an  alarmed  survey  of  the  house,  hides  its  little  face 
in  the  ample  folds  of  Britannia's  gown.  Murmurs 
of  sympathy.  Britannia  (who  has  a  way  with  her) 
encourages  the  infant  (who  has  d^ne  this  fifty  times 
before,  and  is  really  as  brazen  as  brass)  and  points 
to  the  Royal  Box.  Child  drops  curtsy,  amid  more 
applause.  Faith,  Hope,  Mother,  Wife,  History, 
Geography,  Belgium,  Peace,  Mathematics,  Victory, 
Suicide,  Phlebotomy,  Green  Grocery  and  any  other 
symbolical  figures  that  there  may  be,  join  the  group 
one  by  one.  They  all  bow,  the  audience  continues 
applauding:  Faith  (having  mastered  the  unruly 
mechanism)  lights  up  her  sword.  Peace  holds  aloft 
the  Dove.    Belgium's  hair  falls  down.  .  .  . 

The  lights  go  up  in  the  theatre,  and  guinea  stall 
turns  to  guinea  stall  with  a  sigh. 

"Oh,  George  Robey  next,"  she  says.  "I  hope  he'll 
play  golf." 

Now  I  want  to  make  my  position  clear.  I  think 
it  wonderfully  kind  of  all  these  eminent  ladies  to 
spend  all  this  time  and  trouble  in  giving  us  this 
patriotic  sketch.  I  think  it  wonderfully  clever  of 
the  gentleman  who  wrote  it  to  have  made  it  all  up, 
and  thought  of  all  those  rhymes.  I  think  every 
single  sentiment  expressed  in  his  drama  to  be  abso- 
lutely unexceptionable,  and,  as  we  hear  from  the 


208  UP  AND  DOWN 

pulpit,  "True  in  the  best  sense  of  the  word/'  without 
even  inquiring  what  that  cryptic  utterance  means. 
But  there  seems  to  me  to  be  two  weighty  objections 
to  the  whole  affair:  it  is  all  utterly  devoid  of  the 
sense  of  humour  and  of  the  sense  of  decency.  You 
may  say  that  when  treating  of  such  deeply-felt  mat- 
ters as  Faith  and  Victory  and  Mother  and  Child,  a 
sense  of  humour  would  be  out  of  place.  I  do  not 
agree :  it  is  the  absence  of  the  sense  of  humour  that 
causes  it  to  be  so  ridiculous.  As  for  the  propriety 
of  presenting  such  things  on  the  stage,  I  can  only 
say  that  the  Lord  Chamberlain  ought  never  to  have 
allowed  this  and  fifty  other  such  pieces  to  appear, 
on  the  grounds  of  indecent  exposure.  To  present 
under  such  ruthless  imagery  the  secret  and  holiest 
feelings  of  the  heart  is  much  worse  than  allowing 
people  to  appear  with  no  clothes  on.  It  is  all  true, 
too :  there  is  its  crowning  horror.  It  is  just  because 
it  is  so  sacredly  true  that  it  is  totally  unfit  for  public 
production.  There  are  things  you  can't  even  talk 
about  .  .  .  and  they  are  just  these  things  that  the 
author  of  this  abomination  has  put  into  the  mouths 
of  these  eminent  actresses.  And  the  bowings  and 
the  scrapings,  and  the  return  of  the  actors,  all  smiles 
to  their  friends  in  the  audience.  .  .  .  Oh,  swiftly 
come,  George  Robey,  and  let  us  forget  about  it! 

In  this  blear-eyed  December,  which,  with  its  stuffy 
dark  days  and  absence  of  sunshine,  seems  like  some 
drowsy  dormouse  faintly  conscious  of  being  awake, 
and  desiring  only  to  be  allowed  to  go  to  sleep  again, 


DECEMBER,  1915  209 

there  is  an  immense  amount  of  activity  going  on. 
As  in  those  ample  entertainments  for  the  sake  of 
something,  there  is  exhibited  on  the  part  of  actors, 
authors  and  an  intense  desire  to  be  doing  some- 
thing, so  in  the  general  life  of  the  country  there 
is  a  sense  of  being  busy,  being  strenuous,  doing  work 
of  some  sort  in  order  to  experience  the  narcotic  in- 
fluence of  occupation.  The  country  is  unhappy, 
and  since  England  is  a  very  practical  country,  it  is 
stifling  its  spiritual  unhappiness  by  being  busy.  It 
does  things  to  prevent  its  thinking  about  things, 
and  though  it  does  very  foolish  things,  it  shows  its 
common-sense  in  doing  something  rather  than  en- 
courage its  unhappiness  by  brooding  over  it.  Here- 
in, it  shows  its  inherent  vitality:  were  it  less  vital 
it  would  abandon  itself  to  gloomy  reflection.  But 
it  does  not:  it  is  tremendously  busy,  and  so  with 
set  purpose  deprives  itself  of  the  tendency  to  think. 
That  is  not  very  difficult,  for,  as  a  nation,  we  cannot 
be  considered  good  at  thinking. 

Now  considering  that  all  action  of  whatever  kind 
is  the  direct  result  of  thought,  it  would  seem  at  first 
sight,  when  we  observe  the  amazing  activities  of 
most  people,  that  these  same  people  must  think  a 
great  deal.  But  as  a  matter  of  fact,  most  people, 
so  far  from  thinking  a  great  deal,  hardly  think  at  all, 
and  the  greater  part  of  their  consistent  activity  is 
the  result  of  mere  habit.  The  baby,  for  instance, 
who  is  learning  to  walk,  or  the  girl  who  is  learning 
to  knit,  think  immensely  and  absorbedly  about  these 
locomotive  and  involved  accomplishments,  just  be- 


210  UP  AND  DOWN 

cause  they  have  not  yet  formed  the  habit  of  them. 
But  a  few  years  later,  the  baby  who  has  become  a 
man  will  give  no  thought  at  all  to  the  act  of  walking 
and,  indeed,  to  walk  (the  feat  which  once  so  en- 
gaged his  mind),  now  sets  his  mind  free  to  think, 
and  he  finds  that  problems  which  require  to  be 
thought  out  are  assisted  to  their  solution  by  the 
act  that  once  required  so  much  attention:  similarly 
the  grown-up  woman  often  really  talks  and  attends 
better  to  other  things  when  she  is  engaged  in  knit- 
ting. The  accomplishment  has  soaked  in  through 
the  conscious  to  the  sub-conscious  self,  and  demands 
no  direction  from  the  practical  mind. 

It  is  on  the  lines  of  this  analogy  that  we  must  ex- 
plain the  fact  that  many  very  active  people  are 
almost  incapable  of  sustained  or  coherent  thought. 
Many  of  their  activities  are  matters  of  habit;  they 
order  dinner  or  look  at  a  picture  exhibition  or  argue 
about  the  war  with  no  more  thought  than  the  man 
who  walks  or  the  woman  who  knits.  They  can  be 
voluble  about  post-impressionism  because  at  one 
time  they  acquired  the  habit  of  talking  about  it, 
and  to  do  so  now  requires  no  more  exercise  of  the 
reflective  or  critical  qualities  than  does  the  ordering 
of  a  beef-steak  pudding.  Oh,  if  they  argue  about 
the  war,  most  people  have  no  original  ideas  of  any 
kind  on  the  subject:  they  mix  round,  as  in  an  ome- 
lette, certain  facts  they  have  seen  in  the  official  tele- 
grams, with  certain  reflections  they  have  read  in 
the  leaders  of  their  papers,  and  serve  up,  hot  or  cold, 


DECEMBER,  1915  211 

as  their  fancy  dictates.  But  they  do  not  think 
about  it. 

Thought,  in  fact,  not  merely  abstract  thought,  but 
a  far  less  difficult  variety,  namely,  definite  coherent 
thought  about  concrete  things,  is  an  extremely  rare 
accomplishment  among  grown  up  people.  We  are 
often  told  that  it  is  infinitely  harder  to  learn  any- 
thing when  we  are  of  mature  age  than  when  we  are 
young,  and  this  is  quite  true,  the  reason  for  it  being 
that  we  now  find  it  more  difficult  to  think  since  we 
have  so  long  relied  on  muddling  along  under  the 
direction  of  habit.  And  even  the  people  who  think 
they  think  are  not  in  most  cases  the  real  owners  of 
their  thoughts.  They  borrow  their  thoughts,  as 
from  a  circulating  library,  and  instead  of  owning 
them,  return  them  slightly  damaged  at  the  end  of 
a  week  or  two,  and  borrow  some  more.  They  do  not 
think  for  themselves:  they  stir  about  the  stale 
thoughts  of  others  and  offer  their  insipid  porridge 
as  a  home-industry. 

This  second-hand  method  of  thinking  is  strangely 
characteristic  of  our  race,  in  contradistinction  to 
French  and  German  methods  of  thought,  and  is  ad- 
mirably illustrated  by  the  anecdote  concerning  the 
camel.  An  Englishman,  a  Frenchman  and  a  Ger- 
man were  bidden  to  write  an  essay  on  that  melan- 
choly beast,  deriving  their  authorities  from  where 
they  chose.  The  Englishman  studied  books  oi 
natural  history  at  the  British  Museum,  and  when 
he  had  written  an  essay  founded  on  them,  went  and 
shot  a  camel.     The  Frenchman  took  his  hat  and 


212  UP  AND  DOWN 

stick  and  went  to  the  Jardin  des  Plantes,  where  he 
looked  at  a  real  camel,  and  subsequently  had  a  ride 
or  two  on  his  back.  But  the  German  did  none  of 
these  things:  he  consulted  no  authority,  he  looked 
at  no  camel,  but  shutting  himself  up  in  his  study,  he 
constructed  one  from  his  inner  consciousness. 

Now  whether  this  offspring  of  mentality  was  like 
a  real  camel  or  not,  history  does  not  tell  us.  Prob- 
ably it  was  not,  any  more  than  the  new  map  of 
Europe  planned  by  Prussian  militarism  will  prove 
like  the  map  of  Europe  as  it  will  appear  in  the 
atlases  published,  let  us  say,  in  1918.  But  even  if 
the  German  camel  was  totally  unrecognizable  as 
such,  its  constructor  had  shown  himself  capable  of 
entering  on  a  higher  plane  of  thought  than  is  intel- 
ligible to  the  ordinary  Enghshman.  The  German, 
in  fact,  as  we  ^e  beginning  to  learn,  is  able  to  sit 
down  and  think,  and  out  of  pure  thought  to  build 
up  an  image.  The  English  are  excellent  learners, 
quick  to  assimilate  and  apply  what  others  have 
thought  out,  the  French  are  vivid  and  keen  ob- 
servers, but  neither  have  the  power  of  sustained  in- 
ternal thought  which  characterizes  the  Teuton,  who 
incidentally  is  quite  the  equal  of  the  Englishman  at 
learning  and  of  the  Frenchman  at  observation.  The 
German,  for  instance,  thought  out  the  doctrine  of 
submarine  warfare,  and  to  our  grievous  cost  applied 
it  to  our  shipping.  Similarly  they  thought  out  the 
doctrine  of  trench  warfare,  supplemented  by  gas, 
then   the   French,   with   their  marvellously   quick 


DECEMBER,  1915  213 

powers  of  observation,  saw  and  comprehended  and 
applied.  In  fact,  the  two  great  German  inventions 
conceived  by  them,  and  originally  used  by  them, 
have  been  adopted  and  brought  to  a  higher  pitch 
of  perfection  by  their  adversaries.  But  if  only  any 
of  our  allied  nations  could  pick  up  from  them  the 
power  of  concentrated  and  imaginative  thought,  for 
the  root  of  the  matter  is  imagination !  We  prover- 
bially muddle  through,  and  when  occasion  arises,  by 
dint  of  a  certain  stubbornness  and  admirable  stolid- 
ity, though  pommelled  and  buffeted,  eventually 
learn  by  experience  a  successful  mode  of  resistance. 
But  constitutionally,  we  appear  incapable  of  initiat- 
ing ideas.  We  cannot  imagine  an  occasion,  but  can 
only  meet  the  occasion  when  somebody  else 
imagines  it. 

Of  all  the  disappointments  of  this  year  this  is  the 
root.  We  cannot  invent:  we  can  only  counter.  We 
have  not  the  power  of  constructive  imagination, 
which  is  the  mother  and  father  of  original  actions. 
But  when  our  adversaries  indulge  in  original  actions, 
we  can  (on  occasion)  think  out  an  answer  to  them 
which  is  perfectly  effective.  We  can  resist  and  we 
can  hit  back  when  we  are  hit,  but  at  present  we 
have  not  shown  that  we  are  capable  of  imagining 
and  dealing  the  first  blow.  Perhaps  this  may  come, 
for  it  goes  without  saying  that  we  were  notoriously 
unready  at  the  beginning  of  the  war,  and  had  our 
hands  full  and  overfull  with  countering  the  blows 
that  were  rained  on  us.  We  were  on  the  defensive 
and  could  barely  maintain  the  defence,  and  could 


214  UP  AND  DOWN 

not  posisbly  have  collected  that  coiled  force  which 
is  necessary  for  any  offensive  movement.  But  if 
after  sixteen  months  of  war  we  do  not  begin  to  show 
signs  of  it,  it  is  reasonable  to  wonder  whether  the 
cause  of  this  is  not  so  much  that  we  lack  the  batter- 
ing power,  but  that  our  statesmen  and  our  generals 
lack  the  imagination  out  of  which  original  plans 
are  made.  True,  there  have  been  two  original 
schemes,  namely,  that  of  forcing  the  Dardanelles 
and  capturing  Bagdad,  and  if  these  show  the  quality 
of  our  originality,  perhaps  we  are  better  with- 
out it.  .  .  . 

It  is  natural  that  the  stress  of  war  should  have 
brought  out  the  deep-rooted,  inherent  qualities  of 
the  nations  engaged,  and  those  qualities  are  just 
those  that  strike  you  j&rst  in  a  man  of  whatever  na* 
tionality.  When  you  know  him  a  little  better,  you 
think  you  detect  all  sorts  of  other  qualities,  but 
when  you  come  really  to  know  him — singly  or  col- 
lectively— he  is  usually  just  such  as  you  first  thought 
him  to  be.  Indeed,  it  is  as  Francis  said  about  the 
orange:  the  rind  has  the  savour  of  the  fruit  within, 
between  the  two  there  is  a  layer  of  soft,  pulpy  stuff. 
But  when  you  get  through  that,  the  man,  the  essen- 
tial person  is  like  the  taste  of  the  rind.  This  has 
been  immensely  true  with  regard  to  the  war.  On 
the  surface  the  French  strike  anyone  who  comes  in 
contact  with  them  as  full  of  admirable  fervour: 
there  is  the  strong,  sharp  odour  about  them,  there 
is  a  savour  that  penetrates.  Then  you  get  to  know 
them  just  a  little  better,  and  you  find  a  woolly  and 


DECEMBER,  1915  215 

casual  touch  about  them,  which  you,  in  your  igno- 
rance born  out  of  a  little  knowledge,  take  to  be  the 
real  spirit  of  the  French.  But  when  intimate  ac- 
quaintance, or  the  stripping  of  the  surface  takes 
place,  how  you  must  alter  your  estimate  again,  go- 
ing back  to  your  first  impression.  You  meet  the 
fervour,  the  strong  sharp  odour  again,  and  it  goes 
into  the  heart  of  the  nation.  The  Frenchman  is  apt 
on  first  acquaintance  to  seem  too  genuine,  too  patri- 
otically French  to  be  real.  But  when  you  ^et  with- 
in, when  the  stress  of  war.  has  revealed  the  nation 
and  shown  the  strong  beating  of  its  heart,  how  the 
fervour  and  the  intensity  of  savour  persist!  What 
you  thought  was  superficial  you  find  to  be  the  qual- 
ity that  dwells  in  the  innermost.  He  will  easily 
talk  about  La  France  and  La  gloire  when  you  first 
get  acquainted  with  him,  but  when  he  stands  re- 
vealed you  find  that  he  talks  about  it  easily  because 
it  is  the  spring  and  source  of  his  being. 

The  same  holds  with  the  German.  When  first 
you  get  speaking-acquaintance  with  a  German,  you 
consider  him  brutal  and  beery  and  coarse  and  loud- 
tongued.  You  penetrate  a  little  further,  and  find 
him  watching  by  the  Rhine  and  musical  and  philo- 
sophical, a  peaceful,  aloof  dreamer.  Such,  at  any 
rate,  was  the  experience  of  Lord  Haldane.  But 
when  the  pulpy,  stringy  layer  is  stripped  off,  when 
the  stress  of  war  makes  penetration  into  his  real 
self,  you  find  him  again  to  be  as  you  first  thought 
him,  coarse  and  brutal  and  clamant,  the  most  over- 
weening individual  in  all  creation.     Both  with  the 


216  UP  AND  DOWN 

French  and  the  German  you  revised  your  first  im- 
pressions when  you  thought  you  began  to  know 
him,  only  to  find  when  the  real  man  is  revealed  that 
he  is  as  you  first  thought  him.  And  though  it  is 
the  hardest  thing  in  the  world  for  anyone  to  form 
even  an  approximately  true  estimate  of  the  race 
to  which  he  belongs,  I  think  that  the  same  holds  of 
the  English.  They  are  at  heart  very  much  what 
they  appear  to  be  on  the  surface,  blundering  but 
tenacious,  slow  to  move,  but  difficult  when  once  on 
the  move  to  stop.  But  really,  when  I  try  to  think 
what  the  English  are  like,  I  find  I  can  form  no  con- 
clusion about  them,  simply  because  I  am  of  them. 

I  have  just  had  a  long  letter  from  Francis,  a  letter 
radiant  with  internal  happiness.  The  exterior  facts 
of  life  cannot  much  contribute  to  that,  for  the  place 
where  he  now  is  consists,  so  he  tells  me,  entirely  of 
bare  hillside,  lined  with  shallow  trenches,  bullets  and 
swarms  of  drowsy  flies.  He  hints  in  a  cryptic  man- 
ner his  belief  that  he  will  not  remain  there  very  long, 
leaving  me  to  make  any  conjecture  I  please.  But 
in  the  lines  and  between  them  I  read,  as  I  said,  a 
radiance  of  happiness.  He  knows,  with  a  strength 
that  throttles  all  qualms  of  the  flesh,  that  does  not, 
indeed,  allow  them  to  exist  at  all,  the  bright  shining 
of  the  light  invisible,  that  diffused  illumination  in 
which  no  shadow  can  be  cast.  And  as  in  that  walk 
we  had  on  the  downs,  the  knowledge  fills  him  not 
only  with  inward  bliss,  but  with  intense  physical 
enjoyment,  so  that  he  can  be  humorous  over  the 


DECEMBER,  1915  217 

horrors  of  existence  on  that  damned  promontory. 
He  is  genuinely  amused:  for  nobody  was  ever  such 
a  poor  hand  at  dissimulation  as  Francis.  He  finds 
things  to  enjoy  in  that  hell;  more  than  that,  he  finds 
that  hell  enjoyable:  his  letter  breathed  that  serenity 
of  well-being  which  is  the  least  imitable  thing  in  the 
world. 

Meantime,  he  wants  the  news  of  everyday  hap- 
penings, ^Vithout  any  serious  reflections,  or  the  in- 
ternal stomach-ache  of  pessimists."  These  rather 
pointed  remarks  refer,  I  am  afraid,  to  my  last  letter 
to  him,  to  which  he  does  not  otherwise  allude.  He 
quotes  Mr.  Longfellow's  best-known  poem  (I  am 
afraid  also)  in  the  spirit  of  mockery,  and  says: 
"  'Life  is  real,  life  is  earnest,'  and  if  you  doubt  it, 
come  out  to  Suvla  Bay  and  see.  We  are  damned 
earnest  out  here,  and  I  haven't  seen  anybody  who 
doubts  that  Life  is  extremely  real:  so  are  the  flies. 
What  I  want  to  know  is  the  little  rotten  jokes  and 
nonsense,  the  things  you  talk  about  when  you  don't 
think  what  you  are  talking  about.  Here's  one:  the 
other  day  I  was  opening  a  tin  of  potted  meat,  and 
a  bit  of  shrapnel  came  and  took  the  tin  clean  out  of 
my  hand.  It  didn't  touch  me ;  it  simply  whisked  it 
neatly  away.  Another  inch  and  my  hand  would 
have  gone  with  it.  But  I  hope  you  don't  think  I 
gave  thanks  for  the  lucky  escape  I  had  had.  Not 
a  bit:  I  was  merely  furious  at  losing  the  potted 
meat.  It  lay  outside  the  trench  (a  trench  out  here 
is  a  tea-spoonful  of  earth  and  pebbles  which  you 
pile  up  in  front  of  you,  and  then  hide  yourself  be- 


218  UP  AND  DOWN 

hind  it),  and  I  spent  the  whole  of  the  afternoon  in 
casting  for  it,  with  a  hook  on  a  piece  of  string.  I 
was  much  more  interested  in  that  than  in  the  mili- 
tary operations.  I  wanted  my  potted  meat,  which 
I  think  you  sent  me.  Well,  what  I  should  like  you 
to  write  to  me  about,  is  the  things  that  the  part  of 
me  which  wanted  the  potted  meat  would  like  to 
hear  about.  Patriotism  and  principles  be  blowed, 
bless  them !  That's  all  taken  for  granted — 'granted, 
I'm  sure,'  as  the  kitchen-maid  said. 

"Francis. 

"P.S. — You  alluded  to  a  grey  parrot,  in  one  letter. 
For  God's  sake,  tell  me  about  the  grey  parrot.  You 
just  mentioned  a  grey  parrot,  and  then  no  more. 
Grey  parrot  is  what  I  want,  and  your  cat,  and  all  the 
little,  rotten  things  that  are  so  tremendously  im- 
portant.   Write  me  a  grey  parrot  letter." 

Well,  the  grey  parrot  is  rather  interesting  .  .  . 
and  her  name  is  Matilda,  and  if  you  want  to  know 
why  she  is  Matilda,  you  have  only  got  to  look  at 
her.  If  words  have  any  suggestiveness  to  your 
mind,  if  there  is  to  you  any  magic  about  them,  or  if 
they,  unbidden,  conjure  up  images,  I  should  not  be 
surprised  if  the  word  "Matilda"  connoted  to  you  a 
grey  parrot.  It  would  be  more  surprising  if,  when 
you  become  acquainted  with  my  grey  parrot,  you 
did  not  become  aware  that  she  was  Matilda.  I  don't 
see  how  you  can  get  away  from  the  fact  that  she 
must,  in  the  essentials  of  her  nature,  be  Matilda. 
Presently  you  will  see  what  Matilda-ism  is:  when 


DECEMBER,  1915  219 

it  is  stated,  you  will  know  that  you  knew  it  all 
along,  but  didn't  know  you  knew  it.  The  same  sort 
of  thing  happened  to  somebody,  when  he  became 
aware  that  all  his  life  he  had  been  writing  prose. 
And  very  good  prose  it  was.  .  .  .  Here,  then,  begins 
the  introduction  to  Matilda-ism,  in  general  terms  to 
be  applied  later. 

Matilda-ism 

We  all  of  us  know  (even  the  most  consistent  of 
us)  those  baffling  instincts  which  lead  us  to  act  in 
manners  incompatible  with  each  other,  simultane- 
ously. That  is  not  so  puzzling  as  it  sounds  (nor 
sounds  quite  as  ungrammatical  as  it  is),  and  an 
instance  will  clarify  the  principle.  For  who  does 
not  understand  and  in  measure  sympathize  with  the 
careful  housewife  who  embarks  on  a  two-shilling 
taxicab  expedition  in  order  to  purchase  some  small 
household  commodity  at  sixpence  less  than  she  could 
have  bought  it  for  across  the  road?  The  motive  of 
her  expedition  is  economy,  and  therefore  she  lashes 
out  into  bewildering  expenditure  in  order  to  achieve 
it.  Economy,  in  fact,  is  the  direct  cause  of  her 
indulging  in  totally  unnecessary  expenditure.  She 
ties  herself  to  the  stake  with  one  hand,  ready  to  be 
burned  for  the  sake  of  her  faith,  and  offers  incense 
to  the  heathen  gods  with  the  other. 

It  is  this  strain  of  self-contradictory  conduct  that 
I  unhesitatingly  label  Matilda-ism,  for,  as  far  as  I 
am  aware,  there  is  no  other  succinct  term  in  the 


220  UP  AND  DOWN 

English  language  which  sums  up  and  expresses  it. 
(Besides,  it  is  characteristic  of  my  grey  parrot,  for 
as  you  shall  presently  see,  this  is  what  Matilda  does. 
You  cannot  explain  this  incompatibility  of  action 
and  principle  otherwise:  it  is  not  vacillation,  it  is 
not  infirmity  of  purpose,  for  the  economical  house- 
wife is  one  mass  of  purpose  and  her  motive  is  as 
pure  as  Parsifal.  Simply  in  pursuance  of  her  eco- 
nomical design,  she  rushes  into  expense.  Nor  is 
it  the  sign  of  a  weak  intellect,  for  Matilda's  grasp 
of  a  subject  is,  like  Mrs.  Micawber's,  inferior  to 
none,  and  yet  Matilda  is  the  great  example  of  the 
quality  which  takes  its  name  from  her.  She  does 
not  spare  thought  and  industry,  perhaps,  if  any- 
thing, she  thinks  too  much,  which  may  account  for 
the  inadequacy  of  her  plumage.  She  has  been  ill, 
too,  lately,  which  perhaps  makes  her  plumage  worse, 
for  she  has  been  suffering  from  some  obscure  affec- 
tion of  the  brain.  But  since  her  illness  her  Matilda- 
ism  has  been  more  marked  than  ever,  and  I  prefer 
to  think  that  it  is  Thought  which  has  accounted 
both  for  the  illness  and  her  abnormal  moultings. 
She  had  that  rare  disease,  beloved  of  novelists,  called 
Brain-fever.  People's  hair,  we  are  told,  falls  out 
after  brain-fever,  and  so  did  Matilda's  feathers. 
But  I  am  sure  that  Matilda  would  sooner  go  naked, 
than  cease  to  think. 

Unlike  most  women,  Matilda  does  not  care  about 
her  clothes,  and  unlike  most  birds,  she  does  not 
scoop  and  preen  herself  after  breakfast.  She  gives 
one  shake,  and  then  settles  down  to  her  studies, 


DECEMBER,  1915  221 

which  consist  in  observing,  with  a  scornful  wonder, 
all  that  goes  on  round  her.  When  first  she  came 
here,  she  was  in  no  hurry  to  draw  conclusions,  or 
commit  herself  hastily  to  irrevocable  words,  for  she 
sat  and  waited  without  speech  for  some  six  weeks, 
until  I  thought  she  was  either  dumb  or  had  nothing 
to  say.  Then,  unlike  Mr.  Asquith,  she  ceased  to 
wait  and  see,  and  began  calling  the  kitchen-maid 
(Mabel)  in  a  voice  so  like  the  cook's,  that  that 
deluded  young  lady  came  running  from  the  scullery 
int  othe  kitchen,  to  find  no  cook  there  at  all,  at  all, 
but  only  a  grey  parrot,  that  sat  with  stony,  half- 
closed  eyes  on  her  perch.  Then,  as  she  went  out 
again,  believing  that  some  discarnate  intelligence 
had  spoken  to  her,  Matilda  laughed  at  her  in  a  rude, 
hoarse  voice  that  was  precisely  like  the  milkman's, 
mewed  like  the  cat,  and  said  ^'Cuckoo"  a  number  of 
times.  (This  she  had  learned  last  spring  in  the 
country,  and  was  unaware  that  there  were  no 
cuckoos  in  London  ever,  or  even  in  the  country  in 
November.)  Matilda,  in  fact,  with  her  powerful 
intellect  and  her  awful  memory,  had  been  taking 
stock  of  everybody,  and  not  telling  anybody  about 
it.  Now  that  it  was  well  within  her  power  to  deal 
with  every  situation  that  could  possibly  arise  in  a 
mocking  manner,  she  decided  to  begin  talking  and 
taking  an  active  part,  that  of  the  critic,  in  life. 
Simultaneously,  she  began  to  reveal  what  Matilda- 
ism  was.  At  this  period,  since  she  was  too  accom- 
plished to  be  limited  to  the  kitchen,  I  took  her  up- 
stairs.   I   thought   she   would   meet  more  people 


222  UP  AND  DOWN 

there,  and  enlarge,  if  possible,  a  mind  that  was 
already  vast. 

Her  j&rst  definite  elucidation  of  Matilda-ism  was 
to  make  love  in  the  most  abandoned  manner  to  the 
green  parrot.  She  wooed  him  in  the  style  that  the 
Bishop  of  L-nd-n  so  rightly  deprecates,  with  loud 
Cockney  whistles  and  love-lorn  eyes.  Of  course 
Joey  seemed  to  like  that,  and  their  cages  were  moved 
close  together,  in  the  hope  that  eventually  they 
would  make  a  match  of  it,  and  that  most  remark- 
able babies  would  chip  the  shells  of  their  eggs. 
Matilda  continued  to  encourage  him,  and  one  day, 
when  their  cages  were  now  quite  close  to  each  other, 
the  green  gentleman,  trembling  with  excitement,  put 
out  a  horned  claw,  and  introduced  it  into  Matilda's 
cage.  On  which  Matilda  screamed  at  the  top  of  her 
voice  and  bit  it  viciously.  I  thought  at  the  time 
that  this  was  only  an  exhibition  of  the  eternal  femi- 
nine, which  encourages  a  man,  and  then  is  offended 
and  indignant  when  he  makes  the  natural  response 
to  her  invitations,  but  in  the  light  of  subsequent 
events,  I  believe  it  to  have  been  Matilda-ism.  She 
was  not  being  a  flirt,  simply,  while  she  adored,  she 
hated  also.  It  was  Matilda,  you  see:  all  the  time 
it  was  Matilda  waiting  to  be  classified. 

Matilda  knew  perfectly  well  what  a  cat  says:  she 
knew,  too,  that  a  cat  is  called  "Puss,"  and,  putting 
two  and  two  together,  she  always  said  ''Meaow" 
when  you  went  to  her  cage  and  said  'Tuss."  This 
is  synthetic  reasoning,  like  that  of  the  best  philoso- 
phers, and,  all  the  world  over,  is  taken  as  a  mark 


DECEMBER,  1915  223 

of  the  highest  intelligence.  Similarly,  she  knew 
that  my  dog  is  called  Taffy,  and  (by  a  converse 
process  inaccessible  to  any  but  the  finest  minds)  if 
you  went  to  her  cage  and  said  "Bow-ow-ow,"  she 
responded  with  the  neatness  of  a  versicle,  "Taffy, 
Taffy,  Taffy."  But— and  this  is  Matilda-ism— 
when  Taffy  came  near  her  cage  she  invariably 
mewed  to  him,  and  when  a  cat  came  near  her  cage, 
she  barked.  She  did  not  confuse  them;  Matilda's 
brain  shines  illustriously  above  the  clouds  of  mud- 
dle. She  preferred  to  abandon  synthetic  reasoning, 
and  create  Matilda-ism. 

I  must  insist  on  this,  for  all  the  evidence  goes  to 
confirm  it.  For  instance,  if  you  pull  a  handkerchief 
from  your  pocket,  she  makes  rude  noises  which  can- 
not fail  to  remind  you  of  the  blowing  of  a  nose  op- 
pressed by  catarrh.  Also,  when  Mabel  left,  she 
learned  the  name  of  the  new  kitchen-maid  at  once, 
and  never  made  mistakes  about  it.  But  as  she  in- 
creased in  years  and  wisdom,  her  ineradicable  lean- 
ings towards  Matilda-ism  increased  also. 

Then  came  the  crisis  in  her  life,  the  brain-fever  to 
which  I  have  alluded.  She  had  a  fit,  and  for  five 
or  six  days  was  seriously  ill  in  the  spare-room,  set 
high  above  the  noises  of  the  street,  where  no  ex- 
citing sounds  could  reach  her.  But  she  recovered, 
and  her  recovery  was  held  to  be  complete  when 
from  the  spare-room  where  she  had  undergone  her 
rest-cure,  a  stream  of  polyglot  noises  one  morning 
issued  forth.  I  took  her  back  into  my  sitting-room 
again,  and  reminded  her  of  the  European  War  by 


224  UP  AND  DOWN 

saying,  "Gott  strafe  the  Kaiser."  I  thought  this 
would  bring  her  into  touch  with  the  world  of  to-day 
again,  but  for  a  long  time  she  remained  perfectly 
silent.  But  when  I  had  said,  ^^Gott  strafe  the 
Kaiser"  two  or  three  hundred  times,  she  burst  into 
speech  with  a  loud  preliminary  scream. 

"Gott  strafe  Polly's  head,"  she  cried.  "Gott  save 
the  King!  Gott  save  the  Kaiser!  Gott  scratch 
Polly's  head.  Oh,  Lord!  Oh,  Lord!  Cuckoo! 
Cuckoo.  Puss,  Puss,  Puss!  Bow-ow-ow!  .  .  ." 
And  the  poor  demented  bird  laughed  in  hoarse 
ecstasy,  at  having  got  in  touch  with  synthetic  rea- 
soning again! 

Matilda-ism  took  control  of  all  her  thoughts.  If  a 
tea-cup  was  presented  to  her  notice,  she  blew  her 
nose  loudly,  though  I  cannot  believe  that  she  had 
ever  seen  a  tea-cup  used  as  a  handkerchief.  When 
Joey  was  put  near  her  cage  again  she  called  him 
Taffy.  She  barked  at  the  kitchen-maid,  and  mewed 
at  the  cook,  and  called  the  cat  Mabel.  All  her  cor- 
relations had  gone  wrong  in  that  attack  of  brain- 
fever,  and  though  she  had  shown  signs  of  Matilda- 
ism  before,  I  never  thought  it  would  come  to  this. 
She  was  a  voluble  mass  of  contradictory  and  irre- 
concilable propositions. 

All  this  I  wrote  to  Francis,  since  he  desired  do- 
mestic and  ridiculous  information,  but  when  the 
letter  was  sealed  and  dispatched,  I  could  not  help 
thinking  that  Matilda,  real  as  she  is,  is  chiefly  a 
parable.  It  is  impossible,  in  fact,  not  to  recollect 
that  King  Constantine  of  Greece  was  very  ill  last 


DECEMBER,  1915  225 

spring  (like  Matilda),  and  subsequently  (i)  invited 
the  Allies  to  land  at  Salonica,  and  (ii)  turned  M. 
Venizelos  out  of  office.  It  all  looks  traitorous,  but 
perhaps  it  is  mere  Matilda-ism.  But  I  am  not  sure 
that  it  would  not  be  better  for  him  to  have  some 
more  brain-fever,  and  have  done  with  it. 

A  postscript  must  be  added.  I  took  Matilda  into 
the  country,  when  I  went  there  for  a  few  days  last 
week.  One  morning  she  saw  a  ferret  being  taken 
out  of  a  bag,  and  instantly  sang,  ^Top  goes  the 
Weasel."  I  think  that  shows  a  turn  for  the  better, 
some  slight  power  of  sane  synthesis  lurks  in  the 
melody,  for  a  ferret  is  a  sort  of  weasel.  I  am  natu- 
rally optimistic,  and  cannot  help  wondering  whether 
a  change  of  air  might  not  produce  a  similar  ameliora- 
tion in  the  case  of  King  Constantine.  Russia,  for 
instance.  .  .  . 

I  had  intended  to  keep  these  annals  of  Matilda 
detached  from  the  war,  but  it  has  wound  its  way  in 
again,  as  King  Charles's  head  invaded  the  chronicles 
of  Mr.  Dick.  There  is  no  getting  away  from  it:  if 
you  light  a  cigarette,  you  think  of  Turkey  and  the 
expedition  to  the  Dardannelles ;  if  you  drink  a  glass 
of  wine,  you  think  of  the  trenches  dug  through  the 
vineyards  of  France.  And  yet,  how  little,  actually, 
has  the  war  entered  into  the  vital  parts  of  the  mass 
of  English  people.  To  large  numbers,  reckoned  by 
thousands,  it  has  made  unhealable  wounds,  but  into 
larger  numbers,  reckoned  by  millions,  no  prick  of 


226  UP  AND  DOWN 

the  sword  has  really  penetrated.  I  wonder  when 
some  kind  of  awakening  will  come,  when  to  the  end- 
less dormitories  of  drowsy  sleepers,  some  smell  of 
the  burning,  some  sound  of  the  flaming  beams  above 
their  heads  and  below  them  will  pierce  their  dreams. 
I  pray  God  that  on  that  day  there  will  be  no  terri- 
fied plucking  from  sleep  into  realities  vastly  more 
portentous  than  any  nightmare,  but  an  awakening 
from  sloth  into  an  ordered  energy. 

But  up  till  now,  a  profound  slumber,  or  at  the 
most  a  slumber  with  coloured  dreams,  has  possessed 
the  spirit  of  the  nation.  Occasionally  some  sleeper, 
roused  by  the  glare  that  bums  sombrely  on  the 
placid  night  of  normal  human  existence,  has  awoke 
and  has  screamed  out  words  of  Pythian  warning. 
But  his  troubled  awakening  has  but  annoyed  the 
myriads  of  other  sleepers.  One  has  growled  out, 
"Oh,  for  God's  sake,  go  to  sleep  again:  there's  the 
Navy;"  another  has  murmured,  "It's  unpatriotic  to 
be  pessimistic;"  a  third  has  whispered,  "God  always 
permits  us  to  muddle  through."  Sometimes  the 
yell  has  startled  another  into  futile  whimperings,  but 
then  some  retired  Colonel,  who  writes  for  the  papers, 
like  a  soft-slippered  nurse,  pads  up  to  his  bedside, 
and  says,  "Go  to  sleep  again,  dearie,  I'm  here,"  and 
the  whimpering  ceases,  and  the  nurse  pulls  down 
the  blind  to  keep  the  glare  out  of  the  eyes  of  the 
sleeper.  Occasionally  one  of  them  makes  such  a 
to-do  that  an  attendant  hurries  downstairs  to  fetch 
a  member  of  the  Government  from  the  room  where 
they  are  having  such  a  pleasant  chat  over  their  wine, 


DECEMBER,  1915  227 

and  he  is  given  a  glass  of  port,  and  asked  to  come 
downstairs  in  his  dressing-gown  and  join  the  amus- 
ing supper-party.  Sometimes  he  goes,  sometimes  he 
drinks  his  wine  and  prefers  to  go  to  sleep  again 
instead.  I  don't  know  what  would  happen  if  he 
refused  to  go  downstairs,  and  said  he  would  go  on 
screaming.  But  no  one  at  present  contemplates 
such  an  upsetting  contingency.  Besides,  there  is 
always  the  Censor,  Auntie  Censor,  who  can  be  stern 
when  sternness  is  really  wanted,  and  spank  any  ob- 
streperous screamer  with  a  ruthless  blue  pencil. 

Everyone  knows  that  particular  (and  disagree- 
able) climatic  condition,  when,  during  a  frost,  thaw 
becomes  imminent.  It  may  still  be  freezing,  but 
there  is  something  in  the  air  which  tells  those  who 
are  susceptible  to  change  just  a  little  before  change 
arrives  that  a  thaw  is  approaching.  The  sensation 
cannot  be  accounted  for  by  the  thermometer,  which 
still  registers  a  degree  or  two  of  frost,  but  to  those 
who  have  this  weather  prescience,  it  is  quite  unmis- 
takable. Similarly  in  affairs  not  appealing  to  the 
merely  physical  sense,  it  sometimes  happens  that 
people  are  aware  of  a  coming  event  implying  change, 
before  there  is  any  real  reason  to  justify  their  be- 
life.  This  is  so  common  a  phenomenon  that  it  has 
even  been  crystallized  into  an  awkwardly-worded 
proverb  which  informs  us  that  coming  events  cast 
their  shadow  before  (meaning  light),  but  to  adopt 
the  current  phrase,  there  has  lately  been  a  great  deal 
of  shadow  projected  from  the  Dardanelles,  and  it  is 


228  UP  AND  DOWN 

now  a  matter  of  general  belief  that  that  ill-planned, 
ill-executed  expedition  is  about  to  be  recalled,  and 
that  all  the  eager  blood  shed  there  will  now  prove  to 
have  been  poured  out  over  an  enterprise  that  shall 
be  abandoned  as  unrealizable.  For  many  months 
now  hearts  have  been  sick  with  deferred  hope,  eyes 
dim  with  watching  for  the  dawn  that  never  broke, 
and  it  seems  probable  that  "Too  late"  is  to  be 
scrawled  in  red  over  another  abortive  adventure, 
now  to  be  filed  away  among  failures  under  the  ap- 
propriate letter  D.  It  is  idle  to  attempt  to  see  any 
bright  lining  to  the  cloud  which  hangs  over  that 
accursed  peninsula:  all  that  can  be  hoped  is  that 
the  gallant  souls  who  still  hold  a  comer  of  it,  despite 
the  misadventures,  the  miscalculations,  the  misman- 
agement that  have  for  months  punctuated  heroism 
with  halts  and  full  stops  written  in  crimson,  will  be 
bought  off  without  the  crowning  record  of  some 
huge  disaster. 

Christmas  approaches,  and  the  furnaces  of  the 
world-war  are  being  stoked  up  to  bum  with  a  more 
hideous  intensity,  while  village  choirs  practise  their 
hymns  and  anthems  about  peace  on  earth,  good  will 
towards  men.  Every  decent  Christian  Englishman 
(pace  the  pacifists)  believes  in  the  prime  importance 
of  killing  as  many  Germans  as  possible,  and  yet  no 
decent  Christian  Englishman  will  somehow  fail  to 
endorse  with  a  genuine  signature  the  message  of  the 
angelic  host,  even  though  his  fingers  itch  for  the 
evening  paper,  which  he  hopes  contains  some  news 


DECEMBER,  1915  229 

of  successful  slaughter.  That  sounds  like  another 
instance  of  Matilda-ism,  and  mere  discussion,  as 
confined  to  the  narrow  sphere  of  rational  argument, 
might  easily  leave  the  defender  of  such  an  attitude 
with  not  a  leg  to  stand  upon.  But  all  the  time  (for 
argument  at  best  can  only  prove  what  is  not  worth 
explaining)  he  will  know  at  heart  that  his  position 
has  not  been  shaken  by  the  apparent  refutation,  and 
he  will  give  you  his  word  (than  which  there  is 
nothing  greater  and  nothing  less)  that  his  conten- 
tion, logically  indefensible,  is  also  unassailable.  He 
can't  explain,  and  it  is  better  not  to  try.  But  he 
knows  how  it  feels,  which  is  more  vital  than  know- 
ing how  to  account  for  it.  Logic  and  Euclid  are 
not,  after  all,  irrefutable,  though  they  may  be,  by 
human  reason,  the  final  guides  to  human  conduct. 
Everything  cannot  be  referred  to  reason  as  to  a 
supreme  arbiter.  Reason  will  lead  you  a  long  way 
across  the  plain,  but  beyond  the  plain  there  is,  like 
a  row  of  visionary  blue  mountains,  a  range  of  high- 
land which  is  the  abode  of  the  riddles,  the  questions, 
the  inconsistencies  which  are  quite  outside  the  level 
lands  of  reason.  No  one  can  tell  why  the  Omnipo- 
tent Beneficence  (some  people  hate  to  see  the  word 
God)  ever  allowed  cancer  and  malarial  mosquitoes 
and  Prussian  militarism  to  establish  themselves  so 
firmly  on  the  earth  which  is  the  Lord's.  It  is  im- 
possible to  explain  this  away,  and  unless  you  argue 
from  the  fact  of  their  undoubted  existence  that 
there  is  no  such  thing  as  the  Omnipotent  Benefi- 
cence, and  become  that  very  silly  thing  called  an 


230  UP  AND  DOWN 

atheist,  the  best  thing  you  can  do  (collectively)  is 
to  look  for  the  germs  of  cancer  with  a  view  to  their 
destruction,  cover  with  paraffin  the  breeding  places 
of  the  mosquito,  and  help,  if  you  have  the  good  for- 
tune still  to  be  useful,  in  the  extermination  of  Prus- 
sian militarism.  All  these  three  things  are,  very  pos- 
sibly, manifestations  of  the  devil,  and  even  if  they 
are  not  (improbable  as  it  sounds),  there  are  so  like 
manifestations  of  the  devil,  that  we  are  justified  in 
mistaking  them  for  such.  I  am  quite  convinced  of 
that,  and  am  impervious  to  any  argument  about  it. 
I  ^'am  in  love  and  charity"  (in  my  microscopic  de- 
gree) "with  my  neighbours,"  but  that  would  not 
prevent  me  killing  a  German  with  all  the  good  will 
in  the  world,  if  I  was  put  in  the  firing  line,  any 
more  than  it  would  prevent  me  squashing  a  malaria- 
carrying  mosquito  with  my  Prayer  Book.  And  if 
I  could  sing  (which  I  can't)  I  would  bellow  "Peace 
on  earth,  good  will  towards  men,"  at  the  top  of  my 
voice,  even  while  I  was  poising  the  Prayer  Book  or 
drawing  a  bead  on  the  Prussians.  "Inconsistent." 
I  daresay,  but  why  be  consistent?  Besides,  deep 
down,  I  know  it  is  consistent. 

Yet,  though  we  all  recognize  the  essential  con- 
sistency of  this  apparent  inconsistency,  how  we  long, 
as  with  the  yearning  for  morning  through  the  dark 
hours  of  pain,  for  the  time  when  such  complication 
of  instinct  will  have  vanished.  Twelve  leaden 
months  have  dropped  sullenly,  one  by  one,  into  the 
well  of  time,  salt  with  human  tears,  and  those  who 
^vere  optimistic  a  year  ago,  believing  that  when 


DECEMBER,  1915  231 

Christmas  next  came  round,  Europe  would  have 
recovered  from  this  madness  of  bloodshed,  are  less 
confident  in  their  outlook  for  another  Christmas. 
But  few,  1  think,  if  a  stroke  of  the  pen  could  give 
back  to  the  world  that  menacing  tranquillity  which 
preceded  the  war,  would  put  their  name  to  so  craven 
a  document.  Now  that  we  know  what  those  faint 
and  distant  flashes  of  lightning  meant  in  the  years 
that  saw  us  all  sunk  in  the  lethargy  of  opulent  pros- 
perity, now  that  we  know  what  those  veiled  drowsy 
murmurs  of  thunder  from  Central  Europe  por- 
tended, we  would  not  take  in  exchange  for  the  days 
of  direst  peril,  the  false  security  that  preceded  them. 
Even  as  America  now  is  drunk  with  dollars,  so  that 
no  massacre  of  her  citizens  on  the  high  seas  will 
reduce  her  from  the  attitude  of  being  too  proud  to 
fight,  to  the  humbler  office  of  resenting  crimes  that 
send  her  defenceless  citizens  without  warning  to  the 
bottomless  depths  of  the  Atlantic,  so  we,  with  our 
self-sufficiency  and  our  traditional  sense  of  supre- 
macy, could  not  be  bothered  to  listen  to  the  warnings 
of  the  approaching  storm  till  with  hail  of  fire  it 
burst  on  us.  Then,  it  is  true,  we  ceased  to  dream, 
but  ever  since  our  kind  nurses  have  done  their  best 
to  cozen  back  those  inert  hours.  "I'm  sitting  up, 
dearie,"  they  say.     "Just  wait  and  see." 

And  at  this  point  I  will  again  pass  over  a  year, 
that  comprises  the  war  events  of  1916.  In  the 
spring  the  great  German  attack  against  Verdun 
opened,  and  for  months  the  French  stood  steadfast. 


232  UP  AND  DOWN 

until  that  hail  of  hammer  blows  exhausted  itself. 
Early  in  June  was  fought  the  naval  battle  of  Jutland, 
announced  by  the  German  Press  as  so  stupendous  a 
victory,  that  for  the  rest  of  the  year  their  fleet  shel- 
tered in  Kiel,  presumably  because  they  had  de- 
stroyed the  British  naval  supremacy  for  ever.  In 
August  came  the  fall  of  Gorizia,  and  next  month  the 
entry  of  Rumania  into  the  war,  and  a  disastrous 
campaign  followed.  In  Greece  King  Constantine 
continued  his  treacherous  manoeuvres,  but  failed  to 
exhaust  the  patience  of  the  Allies.  In  December, 
lastly,  came  the  bombastic  announcement  that  the 
invincible  and  victorious  Germany  was  willing  from 
motives  of  magnanimous  humanity,  to  grant  peace 
to  the  crushed  and  trampled  Allies,  who  had  dared 
to  dispute  the  might  of  her  God-given  destiny.  A 
suitable  reply  was  returned. 


JANUARY,  1917 

It  is  a  year  since  last  I  wrote  anything  in  this  book, 
and  the  year  has  passed  with  such  speed  that  I  can 
scarcely  believe  that  the  ink  of  December  is  dry. 
Nothing  makes  time  slide  away  so  fast  as  regular 
monotonous  employment,  and  not  only  this  year, 
but  the  year  before  that,  and  five  months  before 
that,  seem  pressed  into  a  moment,  dried  and  flat- 
tened. But  all  the  things  that  happened  before 
that,  when  in  August,  1914,  the  whole  of  one's  con- 
sciousness was  changed,  is  incredibly  remote. 

The  war  has  made  a  cleavage  across  the  continuity 
of  life,  and  while  the  mind  and  the  conscious  self 
get  to  be  at  home  in  the  changed  existence,  the  line 
of  cleavage  does  not  become  obliterated,  but,  on  the 
contrary,  appears  steeper  and  more  sheer-sided. 
The  edges  of  the  chasm  have  been  covered  over  with 
the  green  growth  of  habit,  of  the  adjustment  that 
alone  renders  fresh  conditions  possible;  but  further 
and  further  away  becomes  the  consciousness  that 
there  was  once  a  time  in  which  all  Europe  was  not 
at  war.  In  those  golden  years  people  used  to  dis- 
cuss, just  as  they  would  discuss  ghosts  or  the  ap- 
proach of  a  comet,  the  possibility  of  a  German  war, 
that  would  lead  all  Europe  into  the  gate  of  Hell. 
But  it  was  discussed  theoretically  as  a  subject  of 
polite  conversation,  when  topics  that  were  really  of 

233 


234  UP  AND  DOWN 

interest,  like  Suffragettes  or  Home  Rule  in  Ireland, 
ran  dry.  You  talked  about  the  comet,  Halley's 
comet,  that  was  going  to  destroy  the  world,  and 
then  you  talked  about  a  European  war,  that  was  go- 
ing to  destroy  the  world.  And  then  you  played  the 
guessing  game.  .  .  .It  was  all  one:  just  a  matter  of 
remote  possibilities,  based  on  an  idea  that  you  did 
not  believe  in.  And  then  it  came,  not  Halley's 
comet,  or  a  ghost,  but  the  third  incredible  happen- 
ing. All  that  was  before  has  receded  into  dim  ages. 
You  feel  that  "once  upon  a  time,"  as  in  stories  you 
tell  to  children,  there  was  somebody  else  masquerad- 
ing under  your  own  name,  and  suppose  that  as  by^ 
some  conjuring  trick  he  was  mysteriously  identical 
with  you.  If  you  were  closely  questioned  you  would 
allow  that  in  1913  you  did  this  or  that;  you  wanted 
something  (and  perhaps  got  it) ;  you  lived  in  a 
house  in  a  certain  street,  and  were  popularly  sup- 
posed to  be  the  same  person  who  lives  in  that  or 
another  house  now.  You  would  have  to  admit 
these  facts,  but  deep  down  in  yourself  you  would 
cling  to  the  secr\t  belief  that  it  was  somebody  else 
who,  under  your  name,  did  the  things  and  lived  the 
life  that  is  supposed  to  have  been  yours.  A  label 
was  attached  to  you  then,  which  gave  your  name 
and  address,  and  you  find  the  same  label  round  your 
neck  still.  For  the  sake  of  convenience  you  con- 
tinue to  answer  to  your  name,  and,  in  a  manner  of 
speaking,  are  responsible  for  the  old  lease.  But  all 
the  time  you  feel  that  another  person  wears  the  label 
now.     A  different  identity    (that  is  your  private 


JANUARY,  1917  235 

opinion)  inhabits  your  house.  He  wears  the  same 
(or  similar)  boots  and  shoes;  he  comes  when  he  is 
called;  he  has  a  face  that  is  still  recognized  by  his 
friends.  But  though  his  friends  recognize  him,  you 
secarcely  recognize  him  yourself.  He,  who  was  nur- 
tured in  peace,  has  now  but  a  remote  memory  of 
those  tranquil  years,  and  thinks  they  must  surely 
belong  to  someone  else.  All  he  knows  now  is  that 
since  the  foundation  of  the  world  he  has  lived  in 
the  midst  of  this  grim  struggle,  which,  since  the 
foundation  of  the  world,  was  as  inevitable  as  the 
succession  of  night  and  day.  Before  the  storm 
broke,  somebody  (himself  probably,  since  everyone 
else  says  so)  knew  only  that  life  was  a  pleasant 
business  (or  unpleasant,  as  the  case  may  be),  and 
that  it  would  go  on  for  a  certain  number  of  years, 
and  that  then  an  end  would  come  to  it.  It  was  all 
very  jolly,  and  a  railway  strike  or  the  rise  of  the 
income-tax  to,  say,  one  and  sixpence  in  the  pound 
was  the  sum  of  the  inconvenience  ahead.  In  due 
time  he  would  get  pneumonia  or  cancer,  or  be  run 
over  by  a  motor-bus;  but  all  those  disheartening 
possibilities  seemed  quite  remote.  Then  came  the 
war,  and  it  cleaved  his  former  life  from  his  present 
life  as  by  an  impassable  chasm.  That  being  so,  he 
adjusted  himself  to  his  present  life,  and,  if  he  was 
wise,  ceased  to  waste  time  over  thinking  of  the 
"jolly  days"  which  preceded  the  changed  conditions. 
And  if  he  was  wiser  still,  he  did  not  throw  the  mem- 
ory of  the  "jolly  days"  away,  but  put  them  in  a  box 
and  locked  it  up.    And  if  he  was  wisest  of  all,  he 


236  UP  AND  DOWN 

said :  "I  am  different,  but  the  eternal  things  are  not 
different,"  and  went  on  just  as  usual. 

Indeed,  why  you  do  a  thing  matters  far  more 
than  what  you  do.  It  is  easy  to  conceive  of  a  thor- 
oughly lethargic  person  who,  for  mere  want  of 
vitahty,  lives  a  most  respectable  life.  He  has  not 
energy  enough — and  thereby  is  less  of  a  man — to 
commit  the  usual  errors.  But  the  question  seriously 
arises  as  to  whether  he  had  not  better  be  more  of  a 
man  and  commit  them.  I  hasten  over  this  difficult 
phase,  and  conceive  of  him  again  as  more  vital  than 
ever,  and  abstaining  from  the  usual  crimes  because 
he  is  now  above  them  rather  than  below  them.  He 
looks  down  on  them  instead  of  gazing  feebly  up  at 
them.  In  actual  result,  his  conduct  as  regards  errors 
is  the  same,  but  who  can  doubt  about  the  respective 
values  of  the  respective  conducts?  The  two  are 
poles  apart  (though  in  net  and  tangible  result  the 
extremes  meet),  for  no  one  can  say  that  the  man 
who  does  not  cheat  at  cards  simply  from  fear  of  de- 
tection has  the  smallest  spiritual  affinity  with  the 
average  person  who  plays  honestly  because  he  is 
honest. 

There  is  a  periodical  piece  of  business  in  shops 
and  places  where  they  sell  things,  called  stock-taking, 
and,  as  its  name  implies,  it  consists  in  the  owner 
going  through  the  goods  and  seeing  what  he  has  got. 
It  is  a  useful  custom,  not  only  in  shops,  but  as  ap- 
plied by  ordinary  individuals  to  themselves,  and  the 
first  day  of  a  New  Year  is  a  date  commonly  in  use  as 
the   day   of   internal   stock-taking.    Very   sensible 


JANUARY,  1917  237 

people  will  tell  you  that  the  division  of  one's  life  into 
years  is  a  purely  arbitrary  arrangement,  and  that 
December  31st  is  not  severed  from  January  1st  by 
any  more  real  division  than  July  3rd  is  severed  from 
July  4th.  But  less  superbly-constituted  minds  fall 
back  on  these  arbitrary  arrangements,  and  with  the 
sense  that  they  are  starting  again  on  January  1st, 
they  often  have  a  look  round  their  cupboards  and 
shelves  to  see  what  they  have  in  hand.  It  is  a  dis- 
agreeable sort  of  business;  you  will  find  that  your 
things  have  got  very  dusty  and  dirty,  and  that  prob- 
ably there  is  much  that  should  be  thrown  away  and 
but  little  that  is  worth  keeping  when  you  run  over 
your  record  for  the  past  year.  But  far  more  im- 
portant than  your  actual  conduct  (as  in  the  case 
of  the  two  very  different  gentlemen,  neither  of  whom 
cheats  at  cards)  is  the  motive  that  inspired  your 
conduct.  If  you  are  lucky  you  will  perhaps  find 
that  you  have  done  a  certain  number  of  good- 
natured  things;  you  may  have  done  some  generous 
ones,  but  if  you  are  wise,  you  will,  before  you  let  a 
faint  smile  of  satisfaction  steal  over  your  mobile 
features,  consider  why  you  did  them.  You  may 
have  been  good-natured  out  of  kindness  of  heart; 
all  congratulations  if  it  is  so ;  but  you  may  find  you 
have  been  good-natured  out  of  laziness,  in  which 
case  I  venture  to  congratulate  you  again  on  having 
brought  that  fact  home  to  yourself.  .  .  .  Indeed, 
this  search  for  motive  rather  resembles  what  hap- 
pens when  you  turn  over  a  prettily  marked  piece  of 
rock  lying  on  the  grass.     It  may  be  all  right,  but 


238  UP  AND  DOWN 

sometimes  you  discover  horrible  creepy-crawlies  be- 
low it,  which,  when  disturbed,  scud  about  in  a  dis- 
concerting manner.  Or  again  (which  is  more  en- 
couraging), you  may  come  across  an  object —  a  piece 
of  conduct,  that  is  to  say — which  really  makes  you 
blush  to  look  at  it.  But  possibly,  when  you  turn 
it  over  you  may  find  that  you  really  meant  rather 
well,  in  spite  of  your  deplorable  behaviour.  Hoard 
that  encouragement,  for  you  will  want  as  much  en- 
couragement as  you  can  possibly  find  if  you  intend 
to  do  your  stock-taking  honestly;  otherwise,  you 
will  assuredly  not  have  the  spirit  to  go  through  with 
it.  And  when  the  stock-taking  is  done  look  at  the 
total,  which  will  certainly  be  very  disappointing, 
without  dismay,  but  with  a  sanguine  hope  that  you 
will  find  a  better  show  next  year.  Think  it  over 
well,  and  then  dismiss  the  whole  thing  from  your 
conscious  mind.  For  to  dwell  too  much  on  your 
stock-taking,  or  to  take  stock  too  often,  produces  a 
paralysing  sort  of  self-consciousness.  The  man  who 
sets  his  past  failures  continually  before  him  is  not 
likely  to  be  much  better  in  the  future ;  while  he  who 
contemplates  the  past  successes  gets  fat  and  inert 
with  probably  quite  ill-founded  complacency.  One 
of  the  shrewdest  philosophers  who  ever  lived  gives 
very  sage  advice  on  this  point  when  he  says:  ''And 
when  he  hath  done  all  that  is  to  be  done,  as  far  as 
he  knoweth,  let  him  think  that  he  hath  done 
nothing.''  ...  So  we,  who  have  not  done  one  tithe 
of  the  things  that  we  knew  we  ought  to  have  done. 


JANUARY,  1917  239 

will  certainly  have  little  excuse  for  thinking  we  have 
done  something. 

Another  effect  of  this  last  year  of  tension,  besides 
that  of  sundering  our  present  lives  and  consciousness 
from  pre-war  days,  is  that  it  has  made  a  vast  quan- 
tity of  people  very  much  older.  That  has  advan- 
tages and  disadvantages,  for  while  there  are  cer- 
tainly many  very  admirable  things  connected  with 
the  sense  of  youth,  there  are  some  which  are  not  so 
admirable  when  manifested  by  those  of  mature  and 
middle-aged.  It  is  admirable,  for  instance,  that  the 
middle-aged  should  have  enough  vitality  to  devote 
themselves  to  learning  the  fox-trot,  or  the  bunny- 
bump,  but  it  is  less  admirable  that  they  should 
actually  spend  their  vitality  in  doing  so.  The  war 
has  taken  the  wish  to  bunny-bump  out  of  them,  the 
desire  for  bunny-bumping  has  failed,  and  that  has 
caused  them  to  realize  that  they  are  not  quite  so 
young  a3  they  thought,  or  as  they  proposed  to  be 
for  the  next  twenty  years  or  so.  The  sense  of  mid- 
dle-age has  come  upon  them  as  suddenly  as  the  war 
itself  came,  and  many  have  found  it  extremely  dis- 
concerting. It  is  as  if  they  were  introduced  to  a 
perfect  stranger,  whom  they  have  to  take  into  their 
house  and  live  with.  They  don't  like  the  look  of 
the  stranger,  nor  his  manners,  nor  his  habits,  and 
this  infernal  intruder  does  not  propose,  they  feel, 
to  make  a  short  visit,  but  has  come  to  stop  with 
them  permanently.  He  eats  and  walks  and  reads 
with  them,  and  when  they  wake  up  at  night  they 


240  UP  AND  DOWN 

see  his  head  on  their  pillow.  He  seems  to  them  un- 
gracious and  angular  and  forbidding;  they  dearly- 
long  to  get  away  from  him,  but  that  is  impossible. 
What,  then,  are  they  to  do?  There  is  only  one  thing 
to  be  done,  to  make  friends  with  him  without  loss 
of  time,  and  never  to  regret  the  vanishing  of  the 
jolly  days  before  he  came.  If  they  had  been  wise 
(hardly  anybody  is  in  this  respect) ,  they  would  have 
made  friends  with  him  long  before  he  came  as  a 
permanent  guest;  they  would  have  asked  him  to 
lunch,  so  to  speak,  on  one  day,  and  gone  out  a 
walk  with  him  on  another,  and  have  thus  got  accus- 
tomed to  his  ways  by  degrees.  But  as  they  have  not 
done  that,  they  must  resign  themselves  to  a  period 
of  discomfort  now. 

Probably  they  will  find  that  he  is  much  easier  to 
get  on  with  than  they  think  at  first.  They  fancy 
that  they  will  never  be  happy  again  with  that  old 
bore  always  at  their  elbows,  and  it  is  quite  true  that 
they  never  will  be  happy  again  in  the  old  way. 
They  must  find  a  new  way,  and  the  first  step  to- 
wards that  is  not  to  call  this  guest,  middle-age,  an 
old  bore,  but  discover  what  he  can  do,  and  what  his 
good  points  are.  He  really  has  a  good  many,  if  you 
take  the  trouble  to  look  for  them.  He  has  not  got 
the  tearing  high  spirits  which  they  are  accustomed 
to,  but  he  has  a  certain  serenity  which  is  far  from 
disagreeable  if  you  will  be  at  the  pains  to  draw  it 
out.  He  is  not  very  quick,  he  has  but  little  of  that 
quality  compounded  of  wit  and  activity  and  non- 
sense which  they  were  wont  to  consider  the  basis  of 


JANUARY,  1917  241 

all  social  enjoyment;  but  he  has  a  certam  rather 
kindly  humour  which  gives  a  twinkle  to  the  eye  that 
sparkles  no  longer.  He  has  boiled  down  his  experi- 
ences, sad  and  joyful  alike,  into  a  sort  of  broth 
which  is  nutritive  and  palatable,  though  without 
bubble.  But  patience  is  one  of  its  excellent  ingredi- 
ents, a  wholesome  herb,  which,  for  all  its  homeliness, 
has  a  very  pleasant  taste.  He  can  be  a  very  good 
friend,  not  liable  to  take  offence,  and  though  his 
affections  are  not  passionate,  they  are  very  sincere. 

But  if  you  refuse  to  see  his  good  points,  and  will 
not  make  friends  with  him  (he  will  always  allow  you 
to  do  that;  it  is  ^*up  to  you")?  h©  will  prove  himself 
a  very  cantankerous  old  person  indeed.  He  will 
give  you  the  most  annoying  reminders  of  his  pres- 
ence, digging  you  with  his  skinny  elbow,  and  making 
all  sorts  of  sarcastic  interruptions  when  you  are 
talking.  You  will  get  to  hate  him  more  and  more, 
for  he  will  always  be  spoiling  your  pleasure  until 
you  are  cordially  inclined  towards  him.  He  will  trip 
you  up  in  the  bunny-bump;  he  will  give  you  aches 
and  pains  if  you  persist  in  behaving  as  if  you  were 
twenty-five  still;  he  will  make  you  feel  very  unwell 
if  you  choose  to  eat  lobster-salad  at  sunrise.  And 
you  can't  get  rid  of  him;  the  more  strenuously  you 
deny  his  existence,  the  more  indefatigably  he  will 
remind  you  of  it.  He  is  quite  a  good  friend,  in  fact, 
but  a  perfectly  pernicious  enemy.  But  naturally 
you  will  do  what  you  choose  about  him,  as  you  have 
always  done  about  everything  else.  ... 


242  UP  AND  DOWN 

To  revert  to  Francis  (a  far  more  exhilarating  sub- 
ject than  New  Year  reflections),  he  was  at  home  for 
a  few  days  last  week.  After  the  Dardanelles  expe- 
dition was  abandoned,  he  went  out  to  France  (after 
having  condescended  to  accept  a  commission), 
where  he  proceeded  at  once  to  earn  the  V.C.  for  a 
deed  of  ludicrous  valour,  under  a  storm  of  machine- 
gun  bullets,  and  while  on  leave  received  his  decora- 
tion. 

"Of  course  I  like  it  awfully,"  was  his  comment 
about  it;  "but,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  I  didn't  deserve 
it,  because  on  that  particular  morning  I  didn't  hap- 
pen to  be  frightened.  I  usually  am  frightened,  and 
I've  deserved  the  V.C.  millions  of  times,  but  just 
when  I  got  it  I  didn't  deserve  it.  They  ought  to 
give  the  V.C.  to  fellows  who  are  in  the  devil  of  a 
fright  all  the  time  they  are  doing  their  job.  But  that 
day  I  wasn't;  I  had  had  a  delicious  breakfast,. and 
felt  as  calm  as  Matilda  is  looking.  I  don't  believe 
she  can  speak  a  word  by  the  way;  you  made  it 
all  up.'' 

I  was  very  much  mortified  by  Matilda's  conduct. 
Ever  since  Francis's  return  she  had  sat  in  dead  si- 
lence, though  I  had  taught  her  to  say  "Hurrah  for 
the  V.C,"  and  she  had  repeated  it  without  stop- 
ping for  several  hours  the  day  before  he  arrived. 
But  the  moment  she  saw  him,  she  looked  at  him 
with  a  cold  grey  eye  and  remained  absolutely  speech- 
less. Of  course  I  did  not  tell  Francis  what  I  had 
taught  her  to  say,  because  she  might  take  it  into 
her  head  to  begin  to  talk  at  any  time,  and  her  con- 


JANUARY,  1917  243 

gratulations  would  not  then  be  a  surprise  to  him. 
So  I  held  my  tongue,  and  Matilda  hers. 

Then  a  most  unfortunate  incident  occurred,  for 
Francis  left  his  decoration  in  a  taxi  next  day,  and 
thought  we  telephoned  to  ail  the  taxi-ranks  and 
police-stations  in  the  world,  we  could  hear  nothing 
of  it.  I  don't  think  I  ever  saw  anyone  so  furious 
as  he  was. 

"No  one  will  believe  I  got  it,"  he  shouted.  "I 
meant  to  wear  it  day  and  night,  so  that  even  a 
burglar  coming  into  the  house  should  see  it.  But 
now  no  one  will  know.  I  can't  go  about  chanting 
^I  am  a  V.C,  but  I  left  it  in  a  taxi.'  Who  would 
believe  such  a  cock-and-bull  story?  If  you  heard 
a  fellow  in  the  street  saying  ^I  am  a  V.C.,'  you 
wouldn't  believe  him.  Of  course  there's  the  riband, 
but  it  was  the  Cross  I  wanted  to  wear  day  and 
night — nobody  looks  at  an  inch  of  riband.  Don't 
laugh." 

Matilda  suddenly  cleared  her  throat,  and  blew 
her  nose,  which  is  often  the  prologue  to  conversa- 
tion. I  sincerely  hoped  she  wouldn't  say  "Hurrah 
for  the  V.C."  just  this  moment,  for  it  really  seemed 
possible  that  the  enraged  Francis  might  wrmg  her 
neck  if  she  mocked  at  him.  I  hastened  to  talk  my- 
self, for  Matilda  usually  waits  for  silence  before 
she  scattered  her  pearls  of  wisdom. 

"Well,  apply  for  another  one,"  I  said.  "They'll 
surely  give  you  another  one.  Or  earn  another  one, 
but  apply  first." 

"And  how  many  years  do  you  think  I  should  have 


244  UP  AND  DOWN 

to  wait  for  it?"  he  asked.  "How  many  departments 
do  you  think  I  should  have  to  visit?  How  many 
papers  and  affidavits  do  you  think  I  should  have  to 
sign?  Apply  for  another  one,  indeed,  as  if  the  V.C. 
was  only  a  pound  of  sugar!" 

"Only  a  pound  of  sugar!"  I  said.  "Certainly, 
if  it  takes  as  long  as  it  takes  to  get  a  pound  of 
sugar " 

Matilda  gave  a  loud  shriek., 

"Gott  strafe  the  V.C!"  she  screamed.  "Hurrah 
for  Germany !  Gott  scratch  the  Kaiser's  head !  Bow, 
wow,  wow,  wow^  wow!  Pussy!" 

Francis  stopped  dead  and  turned  his  head  slowly 
round  to  where  Matilda  was  screaming  like  a  Py- 
thian prophetess.  She  whisteled  like  the  milkman, 
she  cuckooed,  she  called  on  her  Maker's  name,  and 
on  Taffy's;  in  a  couple  of  minutes  she  had  said 
everything  she  had  ever  known,  and  mixed  the  V.C 
up  with  them  all.  She  laughed  at  the  V.C;  she 
blew  her  nose  at  him,  accompanying  these  awful 
manifestations  of  Matilda-ism  with  dancing  a 
strange  Brazilian  measure  on  her  perch.  Then  she 
stopped  as  suddenly  as  if  her  power  of  speech  had 
been  blown  out  like  a  candle,  and  hermetically  sealed 
her  homy  beak  for  all  conversational  purposes  for 
precisely  three  weeks. 

Francis  had  stuffed  his  handkerchief  into  his 
mouth,  so  that  his  laughter  should  not  interrupt  Ma- 
tilda, and  got  so  red  in  the  face  I  was  afraid  he 
was  going  to  have  a  fit.    But  when  she  definitely 


JANUARY,  1917  245 

stopped,  he  took  the  handkerchief  out  of  his  mouth, 
and  laughed  till  exhaustion  set  in. 

''O  Lord!  I'm  so  glad  Matilda  is  true!"  he  said. 
'^I  was  half  afraid  you  might  have  invented  her, 
though  I  was  surprised  at  the  impeccable  art  of  your 
invention." 

'Why  surprised?"  I  asked  coldly. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  The  ordinary  reason.  But 
she's  really  more  like  the  British  public  than  King 
Tino.  They  get  things  more  mixed  up  than  any- 
one I  ever  came  across.  For  instance,  they  think 
that  they  ought  to  be  very  grave  and  serious,  be- 
cause the  war  is  very  grave  and  serious.  Why, 
there's  Matilda-ism  for  you !  The  only  possible  way 
of  meeting  a  grave  situation  is  to  meet  it  gaily,  and 
they  would  learn  that  if  they  came  out  to  the 
trenches.  Unless  you  were  flippant  there  you  would 
expire  with  depression.  They  are  beavers  at  work, 
I  allow  that,  but  when  the  day's  work  is  over  they 
ought  to  be  compelled  to  amuse  themselves." 

"But  they  don't  feel  inclined  to,"  said  I. 

"No,  and  I  don't  feel  inclined  to  get  up  in  the 
morning,  but  that  is  no  justification  for  lying  in 
bed.  There  ough  to  be  an  amusement-board  which 
should  make  raids  on  private  houses,  if  they  sus- 
pected that  unseemly  seriousness  was  practised 
there.  People  talk  of  unseemly  mirth,  but  ^hey 
don't  realize  that  gloom,  as  a  general  rule,  is  much 
more  unseemly.  Besides,  you  don't  arrive  at  any- 
thing like  the  proper  output  of  work  if  it  is  done 


246  UP  AND  DOWN 

by  depressed  people.  Also,  the  quality  of  it  is  dif- 
ferent." 

"Do  you  mean  that  a  shell  made  by  cheerful  mu- 
nition workers  has  a  greater  explosive  force  than 
when  it  has  been  made  by  the  melancholy?"  I  asked. 

"I  daresay  that  is  the  case,  and  it  would  account 
for  the  fatct  that  the  Boches'  shells  haven't  been 
nearly  so  devastating  lately,  because  beyond  doubt 
the  Boches  are  a  good  deal  depressed.  There  is  a 
marked  sluggishness  steahng  into  their  explosives.  If 
you  want  to  do  a  good  day's  work  on  Thursday,  by 
far  the  best  preparation  you  can  make  for  it  is  to 
have  a  howling,  jolly  time  on  Wednesday  evening. 
Pleasure  gives  you  energy,  and  pleasure  is  every  bit 
as  real  as  pain,  and  cheerfulness  as  depression.  I 
know  you  will  say  that  it  is  the  fogs  that  make  people 
depressed,  but  it  is  more  likely,  as  someone  sug- 
gested, that  the  depressed  people  make  the  fogs. 
If  so,  I  don't  wonder  at  the  impenetrable  state  of 
affairs  outside." 

He  pointed  at  the  window,  which,  as  far  as  pur- 
poses of  illumination  went,  was  about  as  useful  as 
the  wall.  Since  dawn  no  light  had  broken  through 
that  opaque  cloud  of  brown  vapour;  a  moonkss 
night  was  not  darker  than  this  beleaguered  noon- 
day. It  had  penetrated  into  the  house  and  veiled 
the  corners  of  the  room  in  obscurity,  and  filled  eyes 
and  nose  with  smarting  ill-smelling  stuff. 

"Yes,  decidedly  it's  the  depressed  people  who 
make  the  fog,"  said  he.    "They  are  the  same  thing 


JANUARY,  1917  247 

on  two  different  planes,  for  they  both  refuse  to  ad- 
mit the  sunshine." 

"But,  good  heavens,  aren't  you  ever  depressed?" 
I  asked. 

"Not  inside.  I  don't  count  surface  depression, 
which  can  be  easily  produced  by  an  aching  tooth, 
though,  indeed,  I  haven't  got  much  experience  of 
that.  But  I  am  never  fundamentally  depressed; 
I  never  doubt  that  behind  the  clouds  is  the  sun 
still  shining,  as  that  odious  school-marm  Longfellow 
tells  us.  Often  things  are  immensely  tiresome,  but 
tiresome  things,  painful  things,  have  no  root.  They 
don't  penetrate  down  to  the  central  reality.  But 
all  happiness  springs  from  it.  Even  mere  pleasure 
is  as  real  as  pain,  as  I  said  just  now;  but  joy,  happi- 
ness, is  infinitely  more  real  than  either.  But  some- 
how— I  don't  quite  understand  this,  though  I  know 
it's  true — somehow  happiness  casts  a  shadow,  like 
a  tree  growing  in  the  sunshine.  Thomas  a  Kempis, 
as  usual,  is  quite  right  when  he  says,  Without  sor- 
row none  liveth  in  love.'  But  that  sorrow  is  a 
thing  that  passes;  it  wheels  with  the  sun;  it  is  not 
steadfast;  it  is  not  everlasting.  But  it's  the  devil 
to  try  to  describe  that  which  from  it's  very  nature 
is  indescribable.  Only  there  are  so  many  excellent 
folk  who  think  that  the  shadow  is  more  real  than 
the  object  which  causes  it." 

He  came  and  sat  on  the  hearth-rug,  where  pres- 
ently he  stretched  himself  at  length. 

"And  yet  some  of  the  best  people  who  have  ever 
lived,"  he  said,  "have  experienced  what  they  call 


248  UP  AND  DOWN 

the  darkness  of  the  soul.  The  whole  of  their  belief 
in  God  and  in  love,  all  that  has  made  them  far  the 
happiest  creatures  on  the  earth,  suddenly  leaves 
them.  Their  naked  souls  are  left  in  outer  darkness; 
they  are  convinced  in  their  own  minds — minds,  I 
say — that  there  is  nothing  in  the  world  except  dark- 
ness. And  their  souls  must  remain  perfectly  stead- 
fast, clinging  in  this  freezing  blindness  to  the  con- 
viction that  it  can't  be  so,  that  all  their  senses  and 
their  reasoning  powers  are  wrong.  Nothing  can 
help  them  except  their  own  unaided  faith,  from 
which  all  support  seems  withdrawn.  Job  had  it 
pretty  badly.  It  must  be  beastly,  for  you  can't 
guess  at  the  time  what  is  the  matter  with  you.  Your 
mind  simply  tells  you  that  it  has  become  a  reasoned 
and  convinced  atheist.  It's  a  sort  of  possession ;  the 
devil,  for  some  inscrutable  reason,  is  allowed  to 
enter  into  you,  and  he's  an  awful  sort  of  tenant.  He's 
so  plausible  too,  so  convincing.  He  gets  hold  of 
your  mind  and  says,  ^Just  chuck  overboard  all  that 
you  once  blindly  believed,  and  now  clear-sightedly 
know  to  be  false.  You  needn't  bother  yourself  to 
curse  God  and  die,  because  there  isn't  such  a  thing 
as  God.  And  instead  of  dying  live  and  thoroughly 
enjoy  yourself.'  That  sounds  ridiculous  to  you  and 
me,  whose  minds  the  devil  doesn't  entirely  possess, 
but  imagine  what  it  would  be  if  your  mind  had  his 
spell  cast  on  it,  if  all  you  had  ever  believed  drifted 
away  from  you,  and  left  you  in  the  outer  darkness. 
It  would  sound  excellent  advice  then.  Your  mind 
would  tell  you  that  there  was  nothing  beyond  the 


JANUARY,  1917  249 

mere  material  pleasures  of  the  world.  It  would 
seem  very  foolish  not  to  make  the  most  of  them, 
regardless  of  everything  else,  if  there  was  nothing 
else." 

"But  all  atheists  are  not  unbridled  hedonists," 
said  I. 

"More  fools  they.  At  least,  from  my  point  of 
view,  the  only  possible  bridle  on  one's  carnal  and 
material  desires  is  the  fact  that  one  is  not  an  atheist. 
What  does  the  progress  of  mankind  amount  to  con- 
sidered by  itself?  A  few  scientific  inventions,  a  little 
less  small-pox.  Is  it  for  that  that  unnumbered  gen- 
erations have  lived  and  suffered  and  enjoyed?" 

"But  can't  atheists  believe  in  and  work  for  the 
progress  of  the  world?"  I  asked. 

"I  know  they  do,  but  for  the  life  of  me  I  can't 
see  why.  I  wouldn't  stir  a  finger  or  make  a  single 
act  of  renunciation  if  all  that  inspired  me  was  the 
welfare  of  the  next  generation.  To  me  the  brother- 
hood of  man  is  a  meaningless  phrase  unless  it  is 
coupled  with  the  fatherhood  of  God." 

"But  you  left  Alatri,  you  went  to  fight,  you  won 
the  V.C.  you  left  in  a  taxi  for  the  sake  of  men." 

"No,  for  the  sake  of  what  they  stood  for,"  he  said. 
"For  the  sake  of  that  of  which  they  are  the  mani- 
festation." 

He  got  up  and  looked  at  his  watch.  , 

"Blow  it!  I've  got  to  go  and  see  the  manifesta- 
tion known  as  the  War  Office,"  he  said. 

"After  which?"  I  asked.  "WiU  you  be  back  for 
lunch?" 


250  UP  AND  DOWN 

"No,  I  don't  think  so.  Lord,  I  wish  I  wasn't  go- 
ing to  the  War  Office,  specially  since  you  have  a 
morning  off.  Why  shouldn't  I  say  that  I'm  tired  of 
the  war — I  might  telephone  it — or  that  I  have  be- 
come a  conscientious  objector,  or  that  I've  got  an 
indisposition?" 

There's  the  telephone,"  said  I. 

He  buckled  his  belt. 

"Wonderful  thing  the  telephone,"  he  said.  "And 
what  if  it's  true  that  there's  another  telephone  pos- 
sible: I  mean  the  telephone  between  the  people 
whom  we  think  of  as  living,  and  the  people  whom 
we  don't  really  think  of  as  dead?  I'm  going  to 
lunch  with  an  Aunt,  by  the  way,  who  is  steeped  in 
spiritual  things;  so  much  so,  indeed,  that  she  forgets 
that  the  chief  spiritual  duties,  as  far  as  we  know 
them  for  certain,  are  to  be  truthful  and  cheerful, 
and  all  those  dull  affairs  which  liars  and  pessimists 
say  that  anybody  can  do.  Aunt  Aggie  doesn't  do 
any  of  them ;  she's  an  awful  liar  and  a  hopeless  pes- 
simist, and  her  temper — well!  But  as  I  said,  or 
didn't  I  say  it — I'm  going  to  lunch  with  her  and  go 
to  a  seance  afterwards.  She's  going  to  inquire  after 
Uncle  Willy,  who  was  no  comfort  to  her  in  this 
life;  but  perhaps  he'll  make  up  for  that  now.  Really 
London  is  getting  rather  cracked,  which  is  the  most 
sensible  thing  it  ever  did.  I  think  it's  the  cold 
stodgy  granite  of  the  English  temperament  which  I 
dislike  so.  But  really  it's  getting  chipped,  it's  get- 
ting cracked.  Aunt  Aggie  bows  to  the  new  moon 
just  like  a  proper  Italian,  and  wouldn't  sit  down 


JANUARY,  1917  251 

thirteen  to  dinner  however  hungry  she  was.  Oh, 
there  are  flaws  in  Aunt  Aggie's  granite,  and  she  does 
have  such  horrible  food !    Good-bye." 

I  settled  down  with  a  book,  and  an  electric  light 
at  my  elbow,  and  a  large  fire  at  my  feet,  to  the 
entrancing  occupation  of  not  doing  anything  at  all. 
The  blessed  sixth  morning  of  the  week  had  arrived, 
when  I  was  not  obliged  to  go  out  to  a  large  chilly 
ofl&ce  after  breakfast,  and  I  mentally  contrasted  the 
nuisance  of  having  to  go  out  into  a  beastly  morning 
with  the  bliss  of  not  having  to  go  out,  and  found 
the  latter  was  far  bigger  with  blessing  than  the  for- 
mer with  beastliness.  I  needn't  read  my  book.  I 
needn't  do  anything  that  I  did  not  want  to  do,  but 
very  soon  the  book,  that  I  had  really  taken  up  for 
fear  of  being  surprised  by  a  servant  doing  nothijig 
at  all,  began  to  engross  me.  It  was  concerned  with 
the  inexplicable  telephone  to  which  Francis  had 
alluded,  and  contained  an  account  of  the  communi- 
cations which  had  been  made  by  a  young  soldier 
killed  in  France  with  his  relatives.  As  Francis  had 
said,  London  had  got  cracked  on  the  subject.  .  .  . 

After  all,  what  wonder?  Were  there  the  slightest 
chance  of  establishing  communication  between  the 
living  and  the  dead,  what  subject  (even  the  war) 
would  be  worthier  of  the  profoundest  study  and  ex- 
periment? Nothing  more  interesting,  nothing  more 
vitally  important,  could  engross  us,  for  which  of 
the  affairs  in  this  world  could  be  so  important  as 
the  establishment,  scientifically  and  firmly,  of  any 
facts  that  concern  the  next  world?     For  there  is 


252  UP  AND  DOWN 

one  experience,  namely,  death,  that  is  of  absolutely 
universal  interest.  Everything  else,  from  my  little 
finger  to  Shakespeare's  brain,  only  concerns  a  certain 
number  of  people;  whereas  death  concerns  the  re- 
motest Patagonian.  However  strongly  and  sincerely 
we  may  happen  to  believe  that  death  is  not  an 
extinguishing  of  the  essential  self,  with  what  intense 
interest  we  must  all  grab  at  anything  which  can 
throw  light  on  the  smallest,  most  insignificant  detail 
of  the  life  that  is  hereafter  lived?  Or,  if  your  mind 
is  so  constructed  that  you  do  not  believe  in  the  sur- 
vival of  personality,  how  infinitely  more  keenly  you 
would  clutch  at  the  remotest  evidence  (so  long  as 
it  is  evidence)  that  there  is  something  to  follow 
after  the  earth  has  been  filled  in  above  the  body, 
from  which,  we  are  all  agreed,  something  has  de- 
parted. Without  prejudice,  without  bias  either  of 
child-like  faith  or  convinced  scepticism,  and  pre- 
serving only  an  open  mind,  willing  to  be  convinced 
by  reasonable  phenomena,  there  is  nothing  sublunar 
or  superlunar  that  so  vitally  concerns  us.  You  may 
not  care  about  the  treatment  of  leprosy,  presum- 
ably in  the  belief  that  you  will  not  have  leprosy; 
you  may  not  care  about  Danish  politics  in  the  belief 
that  you  will  never  be  M.P.  (if  there  is  such  a 
thing)  for  Copenhagen.  But  what  cannot  fail  to 
interest  you  is  the  slightest  evidence  of  what  may 
occur  to  you  when  you  pass  the  inevitable  gates. 

There  are  only  two  things  that  can  possibly  hap- 
pen: the  one  is  complete  extinction  (in  which  case  I 
allow  that  the  subject  is  closed,  since  if  you  are 


JANUARY,  1917  253 

extinguished  it  is  idle  to  inquire  what  occurs  next, 
since  nothing  can  occur ;  the  other  is  the  survival,  in 
some  form,  of  life,  of  yourself.  This  falls  into  three 
heads: 

(i)  Reincarnation,  as  an  earwig,  or  a  Hottentot, 

or  an  emperor. 
(ii)  Mere  absorption  into  the  central  furnace  of 

life. 
(in)  Survival  of  personality. 

And  here  the  personal  equation  comes  in.  I  can- 
not really  believe  I  am  going  to  be  an  earwig  or 
an  emperor.  To  my  mind  that  sounds  so  unlikely 
that  I  cannot  fix  serious  thought  upon  it.  What  shall 
I,  this  Me,  do  when  I  am  an  earwig  or  an  emperor? 
How  shall  I  feel?  The  mind  slips  from  the  thought, 
as  you  slip  on  ice,  and  falls  down.  Nor  can  I  con- 
ceive being  absorbed  into  the  central  furnace,  be- 
cause that,  as  far  as  personality  goes,  is  identical 
with  extinction.  My  soul  will  be  burned  in  the 
source  of  life,  just  as  my  body  may  perhaps  be 
burned  in  a  crematorium,  and  I  don't  really  care,  in 
such  a  case,  what  will  happen  to  either  of  them. 

But  my  unshakeable  conviction,  with  regard  to 
which  I  long  for  evidence,  is  that  I — something  that 
I  call  I — will  continue  a  perhaps  less  inglorious 
career  than  it  has  hitherto  pursued.  And  if  you 
assemble  together  a  dozen  healthy  folk,  who  have 
got  no  idea  of  dying  at  present,  you  will  find  that, 
rooted  in  the  consciousness  of  at  least  eleven  of 


254  UP  AND  DOWN 

them,  if  they  will  be  honest  about  themselves,  there 
is  this  same  immutable  conviction  that  They  Them- 
selves will  neither  have  been  extinguished  or  rein- 
carnated or  absorbed  when  their  bodies  are  put  away 
in  a  furnace  or  a  churchyard.  There  is  the  illu- 
sion or  conviction  of  a  vast  majority  of  mankind 
that  with  the  withdrawal  from  the  body  of  the 
Something  which  has  kept  it  ^live,  that  Some- 
thing does  not  cease  to  have  an  independent  and 
personal  existence. 

Well,  there  has  been  lately  an  enormous  increase 
in  the  number  of  those  who  seek  evidence  on  this 
overwhelmingly  interesting  subject.  The  book  which 
I  have  been  reading  and  wondering  over  treats  of 
it,  and  Francis  has  gone  with  his  Aunt  Aggie  to 
seek  it.  There  has  been,  too,  it  is  only  fair  to 
say,  an  enormous  increase  in  the  exasperation  of 
the  folk  who,  knowing  nothing  whatever  about  the 
subject,  and  scorning  to  make  any  study  of  what 
they  consider  such  hopeless  balderdash,  condemn 
all  those  who  have  an  open  mind  on  the  question 
as  blithering  idiots,  hoodwinked  by  the  trickery  of 
so-called  mediums.  Out  of  their  own  inner  con- 
sciousness they  know  that  there  can  be  no  such 
thing  as  communication  between  the  living  and 
the  dead,  and  there's  the  end  of  the  matter.  All 
who  think  there  possibly  may  be  such  communica- 
tion are  fools,  and  all  who  profess  to  be  able  to 
produce  evidence  for  it  are  knaves.  .  .  .  They  them- 
selves, being  persons  of  sanity  and  common-sense, 
know  that  it  is  impossible. 


JANUARY,  1917  255 

But  other  shinging  examples  of  sanity  and  com- 
mon-sense would  undoubtedly  have  affirmed  thirty 
years  ago.  with  the  same  pontifical  infallibility,  that 
such  a  thing  as  wireless  telegraphy  was  impossible, 
or  a  hundred  years  ago  that  it  was  equally  ridicu- 
lous to  think  that  a  sort  of  big  tea-kettle  could 
draw  a  freight  of  human  beings  along  iron  rails  at 
sixty  miles  an  hour.  But  wireless  telegraphy  and 
express  trains  happened,  in  spite  of  their  sanity 
and  common-sense,  and  it  seems  to  me  that  if  we 
deny  the  possibility  of  this  communication  between 
the  living  and  the  dead,  we  are  acting  in  precisely 
the  same  manner  as  those  same  sensible  people 
would  have  acted  thirty  and  a  hundred  years  ago. 

Another  favourite  assertion  of  the  sane  and  sen- 
sible is  that  if  they  could  get  evidence  themselves 
(though  they  foam  with  rage  at  the  very  notion  of 
attempting  to  do  such  a  thing)  they  would  be- 
lieve it.  That  is  precisely  the  same  thing  as  saying 
you  will  not  believe  in  Australia  till  you  have  been 
there.  For  the  existence  of  Australia  depends  (for 
those  who  have  never  seen  it)  on  the  evidence  of 
others.  The  evidence  for  the  existence  of  Australia 
is  overwhelming,  and  therefore  we  are  right  to  ac- 
cept it,  even  though  we  have  not  seen  it  ourselves. 
Kangaroos  and  gold,  and  Australian  troops  and  pos- 
tage-stamps, and  the  voyages  of  steamers,  makes 
its  existence  absolutely  certain;  there  is  no  doubt 
whatever  about  it.  And  the  evidence  in  favour  of 
the  possibility  of  communication  between  this  world 
and  another  non-material  world  is  now  in  process 


256  UP  AND  DOWN 

of  accumulation.  It  is  being  studied  by  people  who 
are  eminent  in  the  scientific  world,  and  it  seems 
that  there  are  fragments,  scraps  of  evidence,  which 
must  be  treated  with  the  respect  of  an  open  mind 
by  all  who  have  not  the  pleasant  gift  of  the  infal- 
libility that  springs  from  complete  ignorance.  It  is 
no  longer  any  use  to  quote  from  Mr.  Sludge  the 
Medium.  .  .  . 

There  are  a  great  many  gullible  people  in  the 
world  and  a  great  many  fraudulent  ones,  and  when 
the  two  get  togther  round  a  table  in  a  darkened 
room,  it  is  obvious  that  there  is  a  premium  on  trick- 
ery. But  because  a  certain  medium  is  a  knave  and 
a  vagabond,  who  ought  to  be  put  in  prison,  and 
others  are  such  as  should  not  be  allowed  to  go  out, 
except  with  their  minds  under  care  of  a  nurse,  it 
does  not  follow  that  there  are  no  such  things  as 
genuine  manifestations.  It  would  be  as  reasonable 
to  say  that  because  a  child  does  his  multiplication 
sum  wrong,  there  is  something  unsound  in  the  mul- 
tiplication table.  A  fraudulent  medium  does  not 
invalidate  a  possible  genuineness  in  those  who  are 
not  cheats;  a  quack  or  a  million  quacks  do  not  cast 
a  slur  on  the  science  of  medicine.  In  questions  of 
spiritualism  there  is  no  denying  that  the  number 
of  quacks  exposed  and  unexposed  is  regrettably 
large,,  and,  without  doubt,  all  spiritualistic  phenom- 
ena should  be  ruthlessly  and  pitilessly  scrutinized. 
But  when  this  is  done,  it  is  only  a  hide-bound  stu- 
pidity that  refuses  to  treat  the  results  with  respect. 

Other  reservations  must  be  made.     All  results 


JANUARY,  1917  257 

that  can  conceivably  be  accounted  for  by  such  well- 
established  phenomena  as  telepathy  or  thought- 
reading  must  be  unhesitatingly  ruled  out.  They  are 
deeply  interesting  in  themselves,  they  are  like  the 
traces  of  other  metals  discovered  in  exploring  a 
gold-reef,  but  they  are  not  the  gold,  and  have  no 
more  to  do  with  the  thing  inquirers  are  in  quest 
of  than  have  acid-drops  or  penny  buns.  Many  me- 
diums (so-called)  are  not  mediums  at  all,  but  have 
that  strange  and  marvellous  gift  of  being  able  to 
explore  the  minds  of  others.  .  .  . 

What  is  the  working  and  mechanism  of  that 
group  of  phenomena,  among  which  we  may  class 
hypnotism,  thought-reading,  telepathy,  and  so  forth, 
we  do  not  rightly  know.  But  inside  the  conscious 
self  of  every  human  being  there  lurks  the  sub-con- 
scious or  subliminal  self,  which  has  something  to  do 
with  all  these  things.  Every  event  that  happens  to 
a  man,  every  thought  that  passes  through  his  mind, 
every  impression  that  his  brain  receives  makes  a 
mark  on  it,  similar,  perhaps,  to  the  minute  dots  on 
phonograph  records.  ;  That  phonogjraph  record 
(probably)  is  in  the  keeping  of  the  sub-conscious 
mind,  and  though  the  conscious  mind  may  have  for- 
gotten the  fact,  and  the  circumstances  in  the  mak- 
ing of  any  of  these  marks,  the  sub-conscious  mind 
has  it  recorded,  and,  under  certain  conditions,  can 
produce  it  again.  And  it  is  the  sub-conscious  mind 
which  without  doubt  exercises  those  thought-reading 
and  telepathic  functions.  In  most  people  it  lies 
practically  inaccessible;  others,  numerically  few,  ap- 


258  UP  AND  DOWN 

pear,  in  trance  or  even  without  the  suspension  of 
the  conscious  mind,  to  be  able  to  exercise  its  powers, 
and — leaving  out  the  mere  conjuring  tricks  of  fraud- 
ulent persons — it  is  they  who  pass  for  mediums. 

What  happens?  This:  A  bereaved  mother  or  a 
bereaved  wife  sits  with  one  of  those  mediums.  The 
medium  goes  into  a  genuine  trance,  and  probing 
the  mind  of  the  eager  expectant  sitter,  can  tell  her 
all  sorts  of  intimate  details  about  the  husband  or 
son  who  has  been  killed  which  are  already  known 
to  her.  The  medium  can  produce  his  name,  his 
appearance;  can  recount  events  and  happenings  of 
his  childhood;  can  even  say  things  which  the 
mother  has  forgotten,  but  which  prove  to  be  true. 
Is  it  any  wonder  that  the  sitter  is  immensely  im- 
pressed? She  is  more  than  impressed,  she  is  con- 
soled and  comforted  when  the  medium  proceeds  to 
add  (still  not  quite  fraudulently)  messages  of  love 
and  assurance  of  well-being.  It  is  not  quite  con- 
scious fraud;  it  is  perhaps  a  fraud  of  the  sub-con- 
scious mind. 

Now  all  this,  these  reminiscences,  these  encourag- 
ing messages  from  the  other  world,  have  to  be 
ruled  out  if  we  want  to  get  at  the  real  thing.  They 
are  phenomena  vastly  interesting  in  themselves,  but 
they  are  clearly  accountable  for  by  the  established 
theory  of  thought-reading.  They  need  have  noth- 
ing whatever  to  do  with  communications  from  dis- 
camate  spirits,  for  they  can  be  accounted  for  by 
a  natural  law  already  known  to  us.    They  do  not 


JANUARY,  1917  259 

help  in  the  slightest  degree  to  establish  the  new 
knowledge  for  which  so  many  are  searching.  .  .  . 

Francis  had  come  back  from  his  lunch  and  his. 
seance  with  Aunt  Aggie,  and  a  considerable  part  of 
these  reflections  are  really  a  precis  of  our  discussion. 
It  had  been  quite  a  good  thought-reading  seance: 
Uncle  Willy,  through  the  mouth  of  the  medium  in 
trance,  had  afiirmed  his  dislike  of  parsnips  and 
mushrooms,  had  mentioned  his  name,  and  nickname, 
Puffin,  by  which  Aunt  Aggie  had  known  him,  and 
had  described  with  extraordinary  precision  the  room 
where  he  used  to  sit. 

''I  was  rather  impressed,"  said  Francis.  "It  really 
was  queer,  for  silly  though  Aunt  Aggie  is,  I  don't 
think  she  had  previously  gone  to  Amber — yes,  the 
medium  was  Amber,  just  Amber — and  primed  her 
with  regard  to  this  information.  Amber  read  it  all 
right  out  of  Aunt  Aggie's  mind.  But  then  Uncle 
Willy  became  so  extremely  unlike  himself  that  I 
couldn't  possibly  believe  it  was  Uncle  Willy;  it  must 
have  been  a  sort  of  reflection  of  what  Aunt  Aggie 
hoped  he  had  become.  He  was  deeply  edifying; 
he  said  he  was  learning  to  be  patient;  he  told  us 
that  he  had  improved  wonderfully.  Poor  Aunt 
Aggie  sobbed,  and  I  knew  she  loved  sobbing.     It 

made  her  feel  good  inside.    AU  the  same "    He 

let  himself  lie  inertly  on  the  sofa,  in  that  supreme 
bodily  laziness  which,  as  I  have  said,  gives  his  mind 
the  greater  activity. 

"It  was  all  a  thought-reading  seance,"  he  said, 
"quite  good  of  its  kind,  but  it  had  no  more  to  do  with 


260  UP  AND  DOWN 

the  other  world  than  Matilda.  .  .  .  But  why 
shouldn't  there  be  a  way  through  between  the  mater- 
ial and  the  spiritual,  just  as  there  is  a  way  for  teleg- 
raphy, as  you  said,  without  wires?  Ninety-nine 
times  out  of  a  hundred,  no  doubt,  a  so-called  mes- 
sage from  the  other  side  is  only  a  subtle  intercom- 
munication between  minds  on  this  side.  It's  so 
hard  to  guard  against  that.  But  it  might  be  done. 
We  might  think  of  some  piece  of  knowledge  known 
only  to  a  fellow  who  was  dead." 

Suddenly  he  jumped  up. 

"I've  thought  of  a  lovely  plan,"  he  said.  "Go  for 
a  walk,  if  you  haven't  been  out  all  day,  or  go  and 
have  a  bath  or  something,  and  while  you  are  gone 
I'll  prepare  a  packet,  and  seal  it  up  in  a  box.  No- 
body will  know  but  me.  And  then  when  the  next 
bit  0  fshrapnel  come  salong  and  hits  me  instead 
of  the  potted-meat  tin,  you  will  pay  half-a-guinea, 
I  think  it  is — I  know  I  paid  for  Aunt  Aggie  and 
myself — and  see  if  a  medium  can  tell  you  what  is 
in  that  box.  Nobody  will  know  except  me,  and  I 
shall  be  dead,  so  it  reaUy  will  look  very  much  as 
if  I  had  a  hand  in  it  if  a  medium  in  trance  can  tell 
you  what  is  in  it.  A  box  can't  telepathize,  can  it? 
The  Roman  Catholics  say  it's  devil-work  to  com- 
municate with  the  dead;  they  say  all  sorts  of  foul 
spirits  get  hold  of  the  other  end  of  the  telephone. 
Isn't  it  lucky  we  aren't  Roman  Catholics?" 

"And  what  about  the  War  Office?"  I  said,  chiefly 
because  I  didn't  want  either  to  go  out  or  have  a 
bath. 


JANUARY,  1917  261 

"Oh,  I  forgot.  I'm  going  to  be  sent  out  to  the 
Italian  front.  We've  got  some  people  there,  and  it 
seems  they  don't  know  Italian  very  well.  I  don't 
know  what  I  shall  be  quite:  I  think /a  sort  of  Bal- 
aam's ass  that  talks,  a  sort  of  mule  perhaps  with  a 
mixed  Italian  and  English  parentage.  Duties?  Or- 
dering dinner,  I  suppose." 

"Lucky  devil!" 

"I'm  not  sure.  I  think  I  would  sooner  take  my 
chance  in  the  trenches.  But  off  I  go  day  after  to- 
morrow. Lord,  if  I  get  a  week's  leave  now  and  then, 
shan't  I  fly  to  Alatri!  Can't  you  come  out,  too,  to 
look  after  your  Italian  property?  Fancy  having  a 
week  at  Alatri  again!  There  won't  be  bathing,  of 
course;  but  how  I  long  to  hear  the  swish  and  bang 
of  the  shutters  that  Pasqualino  has  forgotten  to 
hitch  to,  in  the  Tramontana !  And  the  sweeping  of 
the  wind  in  the  stone-pine!  And  the  glow  and 
crackle  of  the  wood-fire  on  the  hearth!  And  the 
draughty  rooms!  And  the  springing  up  of  the  free- 
zias!  And  Seraphina,  fat  Seraphina,  and  the  smell 
of  frying!  Fancy  being  heedless  again  for  a  week! 
I  feel  sure  the  war  has  never  touched  the  enchanted 
island.  The  world  as  it  was!  Good  Lord,  the  world 
as  it  was!" 

He  had  sat  and  then  lain  down  on  the  floor. 

"It's  odd,"  he  said,  "that  though  I  wouldn't 
change  that  which  I  am,  and  that  which  I  know,  for 
anything  that  went  before,  I  long  for  a  week,  a  day, 
an  hour  of  the  time  when  all  the  material  jollinesses 
of  the  world  were  so  magically  exciting.     Oh,  the 


262  UP  AND  DOWN 

pleasant  evenings  when  one  didn't  think,  but  just 
enjoyed  what  was  there!  There's  a  great  lump  of 
Boy  still  in  me,  which  I  don't  get  rid  of.  The  cache: 
think  of  the  cache  we  were  going  to  revisit  in  Sep- 
tember, 1914!  After  all.  It,  the  mystical  thing  that 
matters,  was  there  all  the  time,  though  one  didn't 
really  know  it.  .  .  .  But  I  should  love  to  get  tne 
world  as  it  was  again.  I  don't  want  it  for  long, 
I  think,  but  just  for  a  little  while.  Rest,  you  know, 
child's  play,  nonsense,  Italy.  I  would  buckle  to 
again  afterwards,  but  it  would  be  nice  to  be  an  ani- 
mal again.  I  want  not  to  think  about  anything 
that  matters,  God,  and  my  soul,  and  right  and 
wrong.  .  .  . 

"I  want  to  rebel.  Just  for  a  minute.  I  daresay 
it's  the  devil  who  makes  me  want.  It's  a  way  he 
has.  ^Be  an  innocent  child,'  says  he,  *and  don't 
think.  Just  look  at  the  jolly  things,  and  the  beauti- 
ful things,  and  take  your  choice!'  I  don't  want  to 
be  beastly,  but  I  do  want  to  get  out  of  the  collar  of 
the  only  life  which  I  believe  to  be  real.  I  want  to 
eat  and  drink  and  sit  in  the  sun,  and  hear  the  shut- 
ters bang,  and  read  a  witty  wicked  book,  and  see 
a  friend — you,  in  fact — and  do  again  what  we  did; 
I  want  to  quench  the  light  invisible,  and  make  it 
invisible,  really  invisible,  for  a  minute  or  two.  I 
suppose  that's  blasphemy  all  right." 

He  lay  silent  a  moment,  and  then  got  up. 

"Oh,  do  go  for  a  walk,"  he  said,  "while  I  prepare 
my  posthumous  packet.  Or  prepare  a  posthumous 
packet  for  me.     You  may  die  first,  you  see;  it's 


JANUARY,  1917  263 

easily  possible  that  you  may  die  first  now  that 
they're  not  sending  me  to  the  trenches  again,  and  it 
would  be  so  interesting  after  your  lamentable  de- 
cease to  be  told  by  a  medium  what  you  had  put  in 
the  packet.  Let's  do  that.  Let  each  of  us  prepare 
a  posthumous  packet,  and  seal  it  up,  and  on  yours 
you  must  put  directions  that  it  is  to  be  delivered  to 
me  unopened.  I  needn't  put  anything  on  mine;  you 
can  keep  them  both  in  a  cupboard  till  one  of  us 
dies.  And  the  survivor  will  consult  a  medium  as 
to  what  is  in  the  late  lamented's  packet.  Only  the 
late  lamented  will  know.  Really,  it  will  be  a  great 
test.  Come  on.  It  will  be  like  playing  caches  again. 
Mind  you  put  something  ridiculous  in  yours." 

I  procured  two  cardboard  boxes,  of  which  we  each 
took  one,  and  went  to  my  bedroom  to  select  un- 
likely objects.  Eventually  I  decided  on  a  "J"  nib, 
a  five-franc  piece  and  a  small  quantity  of  carbolic 
tooth-powder.  These  I  put  in  my  box,  put  directions 
on  the  top  that  it  was  to  be  given  on  my  death  to 
Francis,  and  went  downstairs  again,  where  I  found 
him  sealing  his  up.  I  put  them  both  in  a  drawer 
of  a  table  and  locked  it. 

"Lord,  how  I  long  to  tell  you  what  I've  put  in 
mine!"  said  Francis. 

More  than  half  the  month  has  passed  (I  am  writ- 
ing, as  a  matter  of  evidential  data,  on  the  17th 
of  January),  and  I  desire  to  record  with  the  utmost 
accuracy  gleanable  in  such  affairs,  the  general  feel- 
ing of  the  inhabitants  of  London  with  regard  to  the 


264  UP  AND  DOWN 

war.  Briefly,  then,  a  huge  wave  of  optimism — for 
which  God  be  thanked — has  roared  over  the  town. 
Peace  Notes,  and  the  replies  to  them,  and  the  re- 
plies to  those  replies  have  been  probably  the  wind 
that  raised  that  wave,  or,  in  other  words,  the  super- 
coxcomb  who  rules  the  German  Empire  has  ex- 
pressed his  "holy  wrath"  at  the  reply  of  our  Allied 
nations  to  his  gracious  granting  of  peace  on  his  own 
terms.  But  England  and  France  and  Russia  and 
Italy  have  unanimously  wondered  when,  in  the  his- 
tory of  the  world,  a  nation  that  proclaimed  itself 
victor  has  offered  peace  to  the  adversary  it  pro- 
claimed it  has  conquered.  Germany,  not  only  bel- 
ligerent, but  also  apparently  umpire,  has  announced 
that  she  has  won  the  war,  and  therefore  offers  peace 
to  her  victims.  That  was  a  most  astounding  piece 
of  news,  and  it  surprised  us  all  very  much.  But 
what  must  have  surprised  Germany  more  was  the 
supposedly-expiring  squeal  of  her  victims  which  in- 
timated that  they  were  not  conquered.  Hence  the 
"holy  wrath"  of  the  World-War-Lord,  who  had  inti- 
mated, as  out  of  Sinai,  that  they  were  conquered. 
They  don't  think  so — they  may  be  wrong,  but  they 
just  don't  think  so.  Instead  they  are  delighted  with 
his  victorious  proclamation,  and  take  the  proclama- 
tion as  evidence  that  he  is  not  victorious.  German 
newspapers  have  been,  if  possible,  more  childishly 
profane  than  he,  and  tell  us  they  are  ready  to  grasp 
the  hand  of  God  Almighty,  who  is  giving  such  suc- 
cess to  their  submarine  warfare.  They  said  just 
that;  it  was  their  duty  to  shake  hands  with  God 


JANUARY,  1917  265 

Almighty,  because  with  His  aid  they  had  sunk  so 
many  defenceless  merchant  ships.  Perhaps  that 
"goes  down''  in  Germany,  for  it  appears  that  they 
are  short  of  food,  and  would  gladly  swallow  any- 
thing. 

But  here  we  are,  the  conquered  beleaguered  na- 
tion— and  by  a  tiresome  perversity  we  delight  in 
the  savage  glee  of  our  conquerors,  for  we  happen 
to  believe  that  it  expresses,  not  glee  of  the  conqueror, 
but  the  savage  snarl  of  a  fighting  beast  at  bay. 
Rightly  or  wrongly,  we  think  just  that,  and  the 
louder  the  paeans  from  Germany,  the  brighter  are 
the  eyes  here.  Though  still  the  bitterness  of  this 
winter  of  war  binds  us  with  stricture  of  frost,  a 
belief  in  the  approaching  advent  of  spring,  now  in 
mid- January,  possesses  everybody.  Reports,  the 
authenticity  of  which  it  is  no  longer  possible  to 
doubt,  are  rife  concerning  the  internal  conditions 
of  Germany  and  Austria,  which  is  beginning  to  be 
intolerable.  There  is  not  starvation,  nor  anything 
like  starvation,  but  the  stress  of  real  want  grows 
daily,  and  we  all  believe  that  from  one  cause  or 
other,  from  this,  or  from  the  great  offensive  on  the 
Western  front,  the  preparations  for  which,  none 
doubts,  are  swiftly  and  steadily  maturing,  the  break- 
ing of  winter  is  in  sight.  Perhaps  all  we  optimists, 
as  has  happened  before,  will  again  prove  to  be 
wrong,  and  some  great  crumbling  or  collapse  may 
be  threatening  one  of  the  Allies.  But  to-day  the 
quality  of  optimism  is  somehow  different  from  what 
it  has  been  before.    Also,  the  black  background  of 


266  UP  AND  DOWN 

war  (not  yet  lifted)  in  front  of  which  for  the  last 
two  years  and  a  half  our  lives  have  enacted  them- 
selves, has  become  infinitely  and  intensely  more  en- 
grossing. But  here  in  England  and  France  and  Italy 
and  Russia,  it  is  pierced  with  sudden  gleams  of  sun- 
shine; there  are  rifts  in  it  through  which  for  a 
moment  or  two  shines  the  light  of  the  peace  that 
is  coming.  Only  over  Germany  it  hangs  black  and 
unbroken. 

A  king  gave  a  feast  to  his  lords  and  by  his  com- 
mand there  were  brought  in  the  spoils  and  the  ves- 
sels which  he  had  taken  from  the  house  of  God 
which  he  had  sacked  and  destroyed.  In  the  same 
hour  came  forth  fingers  of  a  man's  hand,  and  wrote 
on  the  wall  of  the  king's  palace.  Then  the  king's 
countenance  was  changed,  and  his  thoughts  troubled 
him,  so  that  the  joints  of  his  loins  were  loosed  and 
his  knees  smote  one  against  another.  For  he  had 
lifted  himself  up  against  the  Lord  of  Heaven,  and 
he  knew  that  his  doom  was  written.  There  was  no 
need  to  call  in  the  astrologers  and  soothsayers,  or 
to  search  for  a  Daniel  who  should  be  able  to  inter- 
pret the  writing,  or  to  promise  to  him  who  should 
read  the  writing  and  show  the  interpretation  thereof 
a  clothing  of  scarlet,  a  chain  of  gold,  and  that  he 
should  be  the  third  ruler  in  the  kingdom,  for  the 
king's  captains  and  his  lords,  and  the  king  himself, 
knew  what  the  meaning  and  the  interpretation  of 
the  writing  was.  In  silence  they  sat  as  they  read 
it,  and  they  sat  in  silence  looking  in  each  other's 
eyes  which  were  bright  with  terror,  and  on  each 


JANUARY,  1917  267 

other's  faces  which  were  blanched  with  dread.  But 
most  of  all  they  looked  at  the  king  himself,  still  clad 
in  his  shining  armour,  and  the  cold  foam  of  his  doom 
was  white  on  the  lips  that  profaned  the  name  of 
the  Most  Highest,  and  the  hand  that  still  grasped 
the  hilt  of  the  sword  which  to  his  eternal  infamy 
he  had  unscabbarded  and  to  his  everlasting  dis- 
honour had  soaked  in  innocent  blood,  was  shaken 
with  an  ague  of  mortal  fear.  And  this  is  the  writing 
that  was  written:  MENE,  MENE,  TEKEL,  UP- 
HARSIN,  for  God  had  numbered  his  kingdom  and 
finished  it;  he  was  weighed  in  the  balance  and 
found  wanting;  his  kingdom  was  divided. 

Even  so,  as  in  the  days  of  King  Belshazzar,  is 
the  doom  written  of  him  who,  above  all  others,  is 
responsible  for  the  blood  that  has  been  outpoured 
on  the  battle-field  of  Europe,  for  the  shattered 
limbs,  the  blinded  eyes,  for  the  murder  of  women 
and  children  from  below  on  the  high  seas,  and  from 
above  in  their  undefended  homes.  God  set  him  on 
the  throne  of  his  fathers,  and  out  of  his  monstrous 
vanity,  his  colossal  and  inhuman  ambitions,  he  has 
given  over  the  harvest  fields  of  the  East  to  the 
reaper  Death,  and  has  caused  blood  to  flow  from 
the  wine  presses  of  the  West.  East  and  West  he 
has  blared  out  his  infamous  decree  that  evil  is  good, 
might  is  right,  that  murder  and  rape  and  the  un- 
speakable tales  of  Teutonic  atrocities  are  deeds  well 
pleasing  in  the  sight  of  God.  And  even  as  in  the 
days  when,  with  his  fooFs-cap  stuck  on  top  of  his 
Imperial   diadem,    and   the  jester's   bells   a-tinkle 


268  UP  AND  DOWN 

against  his  shining  armour,  he  paraded  through 
the  courts  of  Europe  and  the  castles  of  his  dupes, 
as  Supreme  Artist,  Supreme  Musician,  Supreme 
Preacher,  as  well  as  Supreme  War  Lord,  and  fan- 
cied himself  set  so  high  above  the  common  race 
of  man  that  no  human  standard  could  measure 
him ;  so  now  his  infamy  has  sunk  him  so  low  beneath 
the  zones  of  human  sympathy  that  not  till  we  can 
feel  pity  for  him  who  first  left  the  love-supper  of 
His  Lord  and  hanged  himself,  we  shall  commiserate 
the  doom  that  thickens  round  the  head  of  the  Judas 
who  has  betrayed  his  country  and  his  God  in  hope 
to  gratify  his  insensate  dream  of  world-wide  domi- 
nation. 

There  still  he  sits  at  the  feast  with  his  lords  and 
captains,  but  the  wine  is  spilt  from  his  cup,  and 
his  thoughts  are  troubled  and  voices  of  despair 
whisper  to  him  out  of  the  invading  night.  Low 
already  bum  the  lights  in  the  banqueting-hall  that 
was  once  so  nobly  ablaze  with  the  glory  of  those 
who  in  the  sciences  and  the  arts  and  in  learning 
and  high  philosophy  made  Germany  a  prince  among 
nations.  He  and  his  dupes  and  his  flatterers  have 
made  a  brigand  and  a  pirate  of  her,  have  well  and 
truly  earned  for  her  the  scorn  and  the  detestation 
of  all  civilized  minds  and  lovers  of  high  endeavour, 
and  in  the  Ddmmerung  that  gathers  ever  thicker 
round  them  the  fingers  of  a  man's  hand  trace  on 
the  wall  the  letters  of  pale  flame  that  need  no  Dan- 
iel to  interpret.  The  painted  timbers  of  the  roof 
are  cracking,  the  tapestries  are  rent,  the  spilt  wine 


JANUARY,  1917  269 

congeals  in  pools  of  blood,  and  the  legend  of  the 
decree  of  God  blazes  complete  in  the  ruin  of  the 
shambles  where  they  sit. 

It  is  then  this  belief  that  ruin  is  moving  swiftly 
and  steadily  up  over  the  Central  Empires  that 
causes  the  war  once  more,  as  in  its  earlier  days, 
to  engross  the  whole  of  our  thoughts.  It  is  com- 
ing, as  it  were,  in  the  traditional  manner  of  a  thun- 
derstorm against  the  wind,  for  there  is  no  use  in  pre- 
tending that,  as  far  as  military  and  naval  opera- 
tions go,  the  wind  is  not  at  the  moment  being  fav- 
ourable to  our  enemies.  By  sea  the  submarine 
menace  is  more  serious  than  it  has  been  since  the 
war  begun;  there  is  still  no  advance  on  the  West 
front,  while  on  the  East  the  complete  over-running 
of  Roumania  cannot  be  called  a  success  from  our 
point  of  view.  But  in  spite  of  this,  there  is  the 
rooted  belief  that  the  collapse  which  we  have  so 
long  waited  for  is  getting  measureably  nearer.  None 
knows,  and  few  are  rash  enough  to  assert  when  it 
will  come,  or  what  month,  near  or  distant,  will  see 
it,  and  in  the  meantime  the  broom  of  the  new 
Government,  to  judge  by  the  dust  it  raises,  may 
be  thought  to  be  sweeping  clean,  and  the  appalling 
bequests  of  our  late  rulers,  the  accumulated  remains 
of  sloppy  Cabinet  puddings,  are  being  vigorously 
relegated  to  the  dustbins.  With  the  ineradicable 
boyishness  of  the  nation  (which  really  has  a  good 
deal  to  be  said  for  it),  we  still  tend  to  make  a  game 
out  of  serious  necessities,   and   are  having  great 


270  UP  AND  DOWN 

sport  over  the  question  of  food.  For  a  few  weeks 
we  amused  ourselves  over  one  of  the  most  charac- 
teristic inventions  of  the  last  Government,  and  tried 
to  see  how  much  we  could  eat  without  indulging  in 
more  than  three  courses  for  dinner  or  two  for  lunch, 
which  was  what  the  late  Food  Controller  allowed 
us.  This  was  an  amusing  game,  but  as  a  policy  it 
had  insuperable  defects,  as,  for  instance,  when  we 
consider  that  the  bulk  of  the  working  population 
takes  its  solid  meal  in  the  middle  of  the  day,  and 
would  no  more  think  of  eating  three  courses  in  the 
evening  than  of  eating  four  in  the  morning.  There 
was  a  regular  tariff:  meat  counted  as  one  course, 
pudding  another,  toasted  cheese  another,  but  you 
were  allowed  any  quantity  of  cold  cheese,  bread  and 
butter  (those  articles  in  which  national  economy 
was  really  important)  without  counting  anything 
at  all.  In  the  same  way  you  could  have  as  many 
slices  of  beef  as  you  wished  (as  the  Government 
wanted  to  effect  a  saving  in  the  consumption  of 
meat),  but  to  touch  an  apple  or  a  pear,  about  which 
there  was  no  desire  to  save,  cost  you  a  course.  Al- 
together it  was  one  of  the  least  helpful,  but  most 
comic  schemes  that  could  well  be  devised.  Matilda, 
I  fancy,  thought  it  out  and  communicated  it  to  Mr. 
Runciman  by  the  telepathy  that  exists  between  bird- 
like brains.  It  is  in  flat  and  flagrant  violation  of 
human  psychology,  for  you  have  only  to  tell  the 
perverse  race  of  mankind  that  they  may  only  eat 
two  dishes,  to  ensure  that  they  will  eat  much  more 
of  those  two  dishes  than  was  comprised  in  the  whole 


JANUARY,  1917  271 

of  their  unrestricted  meals,  while  to  allow  them  to 
eat  as  much  cheese  as  they  wish  is  simply  to  make 
cheese-eaters  out  of  those  who  never  dreamed  of 
touching  it  before.  But  there  is  a  rumour  now  that 
we  are  to  go  back  to  our  ordinary  diet  again,  which 
I  take  to  be  true,  for  when  this  morning  I  gave  Ma- 
tilda a  list  of  the  regulations  to  show  her  how  it 
looked  in  print,  she  uttered  a  piercing  yell  and  tore 
the  card  into  a  million  fragments. 

But  with  the  new  broom  has  come  a  powerful 
deal  of  cleaning  up:  there  is  a  new  Food  Board, 
and  a  Man  Power  Board,  and  a  fifty  per  cent,  in- 
crease in  railway  fares  (which  will  be  nice  for  the 
dividends  of  railway  companies),  and  hints  of  meat- 
less days  and  sugar  tickets,  and  there  are  ideas  of 
ploughing  up  the  parks  and  planting  wheat  there 
(which  will  be  nice  for  the  wood-pigeons).  Indeed, 
as  Francis  said,  we  are  perhaps  beginning  to  take 
the  war  seriously,  though,  on  the  other  hand,  since 
he  left  the  prevalent  optimism  has  largely  remedied 
the  absence  of  the  gaiety  which  he  so  much  deplored. 


FEBRUARY,  1917. 

Germany  has  proposed  a  toast.  She  drinks 
(Hoch!)  to  the  freedom  of  the  seas.  And  she 
couples  with  it  the  freedom  (of  herself)  to  torpedo 
from  her  submarines  any  vessel,  neutral  or  bel- 
ligerent, at  sight,  and  without  warning. 

So  now  at  last  we  know  what  the  freedom  of  the 
seas  means.  The  seas  are  to  be  free  in  precisely 
the  sense  that  Belgium  is  free,  and  Germany  is  free 
to  commit  murder  on  them. 

This  declaration  on  the  part  of  Germany  was 
followed  three  days  later  by  a  declaration  on  the 
part  of  the  United  States.  Diplomatic  relations 
have  been  instantly  severed,  and  President  Wilson 
only  waits  for  a  "clear  overt  act"  of  hostility  on  the 
part  of  Germany  to  declare  war. 

America  has  declared  her  mind  with  regard  to 
the  freedom  of  the  seas,  and  that  abominable  toast 
has  led  to  the  severance  of  diplomatic  relations 
between  her  and  Germany.  Count  Bernstorff  has 
been  dismissed,  and  in  Berlin  Mr.  Gerard  has  asked 
for  his  passports.  There  is  no  possible  shadow  of 
doubt  what  that  means,  for  we  all  remember  August 
4th,  1914,  when  we  refused  to  discuss  the  over- 
running of  Belgium  by  Germany.  War  followed 
instantly  and  automatically.    "You  shan't  do  that,'' 

272 


FEBRUARY,  1917  273 

was  the  equivalent  of  ''If  you  do,  we  fight."  It  is 
precisely  the  same  position  between  America  and 
Germany  now.  Germany  will  torpedo  neutrals  at 
sight,  just  as  Germany  would  overrun  Belgium. 
The  rest  follows.     Q.E.D. 

But  it  is  impossible  to  overstate  the  relief  with 
which  England  has  hailed  this  unmistakable  word  on 
the  part  of  the  United  States.  Many  people  have 
said:  "What  can  America  do  if  she  does  come  in?" 
But  that  was  not  really  the  point.  Of  course  she 
will  do,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  a  treemndous  lot.  She 
will  finance  our  Allies;  she  is  rich,  beyond  all  dreams 
of  financiers,  with  the  profits  she  has  reaped  from 
the  war,  and  the  loans  she  will  float  will  eclipse  into 
shadow  all  that  England  has  already  done  in  that 
regard.  ''But  what  else?"  ask  the  sceptics.  ''What 
of  her  army?  She  has  no  army."  Nor  for  that 
matter  had  England  when  the  war  began.  But 
even  the  sceptics  cannot  deny  the  immense  value 
of  her  fleet.  In  the  matter  of  torpedo-boats  and  of 
light  craft  generally,  which  we  so  sorely  need  for 
the  hunting  down  of  those  great-hearted  champions 
of  the  freedom  of  the  seas,  the  German  submarines, 
she  can  double  our  weapons,  or,  as  the  more  en- 
thusiastic say,  she  can  more  than  double  them.  All 
the  Government  munition  factories  will  be  working 
like  ours,  day  and  night;  she  may  even  bring  in 
conscription;  she  will  devote  to  the  cause  of  her 
Allies  the  million  inventive  brains  with  which  she 
teems.  This  is  just  a  little  part  of  what  America 
could  have  done,  when  first  the  Belgian  Treaty  was 


274  UP  AND  DOWN 

torn  over,  and  it  is  just  a  little  part  of  what  America 
will  do  now. 

But  all  that  she  can  do,  as  I  said,  is  beside  the 
point.  The  point  is,  not  what  America  can  do,  but 
what  America  is.  Now  she  has  shown  what  she  is, 
a  nation  which  will  not  suffer  wrong  and  robbery 
and  piracy.  The  disappointments  of  the  past,  with 
regard  to  her,  are  wiped  off.  She  was  remote  from 
Europe,  and  remote  from  her  was  the  wrong  done 
to  Belgium.  .  .  .  There  is  no  need  now  to  recount 
the  tale  of  outrages  that  did  not  exhaust  her  pa- 
tience. She  waited — wisely,  we  are  willing  to  be- 
lieve— until  she  was  ready,  until  the  President  knew 
that  he  had  the  country  behind  him,  and  until  some 
outrage  of  the  laws  of  man  and  of  God  became 
intolerable.  It  has  now  become  intolerable  to  her, 
and  if  she  is  wilhng  to  clasp  the  hands  of  those  who 
once  doubted  her,  and  now  see  how  wrong  it  was  to 
doubt,  a  myriad  of  hands  are  here  held  out  for  her 
grasping. 

The  splendour  of  this,  its  late  winter  sunrise,  has 
rendered  quite  colourless  things  that  in  time  of 
peace  would  have  filled  the  columns  of  every  news- 
paper, and  engrossed  every  thought  of  its  readers. 
A  plot,  unequalled  since  the  days  of  the  Borgias, 
has  come  to  light,  the  object  of  which  was  to  kill 
the  Prime  Minister  by  means  of  poisoned  arrows, 
or  of  poisoned  thorns  in  the  inside  of  the  sole  of 
his  boot.  Never  was  there  so  picturesque  an  abomi- 
nation. The  poison  employed  was  to  be  that  Indian 
secretion  of  deadly  herbs  called  curare,  a  prick  of 


FEBRUARY,  1917  275 

which  produces  a  fatal  result.  A  party  of  desperate 
women,  opposed  to  conscription,  invoked  the  aid 
of  a  conscripted  chemist,  and  Borgianism,  full- 
fledged,  flared  to  life  again  in  the  twentieth  cen- 
tury, with  a  setting  of  Downing  Street  and  the  golf- 
links  at  Walton  Heath.  To  the  student  of  crimi- 
nology the  Crippen  affair  should  have  faded  like 
the  breath  on  a  frosty  morning,  compared  with  the 
scheme  of  this  staggering  plot.  But  with  this  West- 
em  sunrise  over  America  to  occupy  our  public  minds, 
no  one  (except,  I  suppose,  the  counsel  in  the  case 
and  the  prisoners)  gave  two  thoughts  to  this  anach- 
ronistic episode.  And  there  was  the  Victory  War 
Loan  and  National  Service  as  well. 

But  though  the  public  mind  of  any  individual 
can  be  satiated  with  sensation,  my  experience  is 
that  the  private  mind  "carries  on''  much  the  same 
as  usual.  If  the  trump  of  the  Last  Judgment  was 
to  sound  to-morrow  morning,  tearing  us  from  our 
sleep,  and  summoning  us  out  to  Hyde  Park  or  some 
other  open  space,  I  verily  believe  that  we  should 
all  look  up  at  the  sky  that  was  vanishing  like  a 
burning  scroll,  and  consider  the  advisability  of  tak- 
ing an  umbrella,  or  of  putting  on  a  coat.  Little 
things  do  not,  in  times  of  the  greatest  excitement, 
at  all  cease  to  concern  us;  the  big  thing  absorbs  a 
certain  part  of  our  facultie,s  and  when  it  has  an- 
nexed these,  it  cannot  claim  the  dominion  of  little 
things  as  well.  And  for  this  reason,  I  suppose,  I 
do  not  much  attend  to  the  Borgia  plot,  since  my 
public  sympathies  are  so  inflamed  with  America; 


276  UP  AND  DOWN 

but  when  work  is  done  (or  shuffled  somehow  away, 
to  be  attended  to  to-morrow)  I  fly  on  the  wings  of 
the  Tube  to  Regent's  Park,  and,  once  again,  ridicu- 
lously concern  myself  with  the  marks  that  it  is  pos- 
sible to  make  on  ice  with  a  pair  of  skates,  used 
one  at  a  time  (unless  you  are  so  debased  as  to 
study  grape-vines).  There  is  a  club  which  has  its 
quarters  in  that  park,  which  in  summer  is  called 
the  Toxophilite,  and  in  winter  'The  Skating  Club" 
('The''  as  opposed  to  all  other  skating  clubs),  and 
to  the  ice  provided  there  on  the  ground  where  in 
summer  enthusiastic  archers  fit  their  winged  arrows 
to  yew- wood  bows,  we  recapture  the  legitimate  joys 
of  winter.  Admirals  and  Generals,  individuals  of 
private  and  public  importance,  all  skulk  up  there 
with  discreet  black  bags,  which  look  as  if  they  might 
hold  dispatches,  but  really  hold  skates,  and  cast  off 
Black  Care,  and  cast  themselves  onto  the  ice.  An 
unprecedented  Three  Weeks  (quite  as  unprece- 
dented as  those  of  that  amorous  volume)  have  been 
vouchsafed  us,  and  day  after  day,  mindful  of  the 
fickleness  of  frost  in  our  sub-tropical  climate,  we 
have  compounded  with  our  consciences,  when  they 
reminded  us  that  it  was  time  to  go  back  to  work, 
on  the  plea  that  skating  was  so  scarce,  and  that  in 
all  probability  the  frost  would  be  gone  to-morrow. 
To  snatch  a  pleasure  that  seldom  comes  within 
reach  always  gives  a  zest  to  the  enjoyment  of  it, 
and  we  have  snatched  three  weeks  of  this,  under 
the  perpetual  stimulus  of  imagining  that  each  day 
would  be  the  last.     Indeed,  it  has  been  a  return 


FEBRUARY,  1917  277 

to  the  Glacial  Age,  when  we  must  suppose  there 
was  skating  all  the  year  round.  Probably  that  was 
why  there  were  no  wars,  as  far  as  we  can  ascertain, 
in  that  pacific  epoch  of  history.  Everyone  was  so 
intent  on  skating  and  avoiding  collisions  with  the 
mammoths  (who  must  rather  have  spoiled  the  ice) 
that  he  couldn't  j5nd  enough  superfluous  energy  to 
quarrel  with  his  fellows.  You  have  to  lash  your- 
self up,  and  be  lashed  up  in  order  to  quarrel,  and 
you  are  too  busy  for  that  when  there  is  skating. 
.  .  .  Was  it  to  the  Glacial  Age  that  the  hymn  re- 
ferred, which  to  my  childish  ears  ran  like  this: 

That    war   shall   be    no    more; 
And   lust,   oppression,   crime 
Shall  flee  thy  face  before. 

I  never  knew,  nor  cared  to  inquire,  what  "lusto" 
was,  nor  what  "Thy  face  before"  could  mean.  For 
faces  usually  were  before,  not  behind. 

While  we  have  been  enjoying  these  unusual  rig- 
ours, Francis,  "somewhere  in  Italy,"  at  a  place,  as 
far  as  I  can  gather,  which  not  so  long  ago  used  to 
be  "somewhere  in  Austria,"  has  not  been  enjoy- 
ing the  return  of  the  Glacial  Age  at  all.  He  has 
written,  indeed,  in  a  strain  most  unusual  with  him 
and  as  unlike  as  possible  to  his  normal  radiance 
of  content.  "On  the  calmer  sort  of  day,"  he  says, 
"the  wind  blows  a  hurricane,  and  on  others  two  hur- 
ricanes. I  can  hear  the  wind  whistling  through  my 
bones,  whistling  through  them  as  it  whistles  through 
telegraph  wires,  and  the  cold  eats  them  away,  as 
when  the  frost  gets  into  potatoes.    Also,  the  work 


278  UP  AND  DOWN 

is  duller  than  anything  I  have  yet  come  across  in 
this  world,  and  I  am  doing  nothing  that  the  man  in 
a  gold-lace  cap  who  stands  about  in  the  hall  of  an 
hotel  and  expects  to  be  tipped  because  of  his  great 
glory,  could  not  do  quite  as  well  as  I.  Besides,  he 
would  do  it  with  much  greater  urbanity  than  I  can 
scrape  together,  for  it  is  hard  to  be  urbane  when 
you  have  an  almost  perpetual  stomach-ache  of  the 
red-hot  poker  order.  But  in  ten  days  now  I  go 
down  to  Rome,  where  I  shall  be  for  some  weeks, 
and  I  shall  sit  in  front  of  a  fire  or  in  the  sun,  if 
there  is  such  a  thing  as  the  sun  left  in  this  ill- 
ordered  universe,  and  see  a  doctor.  I  dislike  the 
thought  of  that,  because  it  always  seems  to  me 
rather  disgraceful  to  be  ill.  One  wasn't  intended 
to  be  ill.  .  .  .  But  I  daresay  the  doctor  will  tell  me 
that  I'm  not,  and  it  will  be  quite  worth  while  hear- 
ing that.  Anyhow,  I  shall  hope  to  get  across  to  the 
beloved  island  for  a  few  days,  before  I  return  to 
this  tooth-chattering  table-land.  This  is  too  grousy 
and  grumbly  a  letter  to  send  off  just  as  it  is.  Any- 
how, I  will  keep  it  till  to-morrow  to  see  if  I  can't 
find  anything  more  cheerful  to  tell  you." 

But  there  was  nothing  added,  and  I  must  simply 
wait  for  further  news  from  him.  It  is  impossible 
not  to  feel  rather  anxious,  for  the  whole  tenor  of 
his  letter,  from  which  this  is  but  an  extract,  is 
strangely  unlike  the  Francis  who  extracted  gaiety 
out  of  Gallipoli.  There  is,  however,  this  to  be  said, 
that  he  has  practically  never  known  pain,  in  his 


FEBRUARY,  1917  279 

serene  imperturable  health,  which,  though  I  am  not 
a  Christian  Scientist,  I  believe  is  largely  due  to  the 
joyful  serenity  of  his  spiritual  health,  and  that  prob- 
ably pain  is  far  more  intolerable  to  him  than  it 
would  be  to  most  people  who  have  the  ordinary  mor- 
tal's share  of  that  uncomfortable  visitor.  But  a 
"red-hot  poker"  pain  perpetually  there  does  not 
sound  a  reassuring  account,  and  I  confess  that  I 
wait  for  his  next  letter  with  anxiety. 

The  ruthless  submarine  campaign  has  begun,  and 
there  is  no  use  in  blinking  the  fact  that  at  present 
it  constitutes  a  serious  menace.  Owing  to  the  crimi- 
nal folly  of  the  late  Government,  their  obstinate 
refusal  to  take  any  steps  whatever  with  regard  to 
the  future,  their  happy-go-lucky  and  imperfect  pro- 
vision just  for  the  needs  of  the  day,  without  any 
foresight  as  to  what  the  future  enterprise  of  the 
enemy  might  contrive,  we  are,  as  usual,  attempting 
to  counter  a  blow  after  it  has  been  struck.  Pessi- 
mism and  optimism  succeed  each  other  in  alternate 
waves,  and  at  one  time  we  remind  ourselves  that 
there  is  not  more  than  six  weeks'  supply  of  food 
in  the  country,  and  at  another  compare  the  infini- 
tesimally  small  proportion  of  the  tonnage  that  is 
sunk  per  week  with  that  which  arrives  safely  at  its 
destination.  Wild  rumours  fly  about  (all  based  on 
the  best  authority)  concerning  the  number  of  sub- 
marines which  are  hunting  the  seas,  only  to  be  met 
by  others,  equally  well  attested,  which  tell  us  how 
many  of  those  will  hunt  the  seas  no  more.    There 


280  UP  AND  DOWN 

appear  to  be  rows  and  rows  of  them  in  Portsmouth 
Harbour;  they  line  the  quays.  And  instantly  you 
are  told  that  at  the  present  rate  of  sinking  going 
on  among  our  merchant  navy,  we  shall  arrive  at  the 
very  last  grain  of  com  about  the  middle  of  May. 
For  myself,  I  choose  to  believe  all  the  optimistic 
reports,  and  turn  a  deaf  ear,  like  the  adder,  to  any- 
thing that  rings  with  a  sinister  sound.  Whatever 
be  the  truth  of  all  these  contradictory  and  reliable 
facts,  it  is  quite  outside  my  power  to  help  or  hinder, 
beyond  making  sure  that  my  household  does  not  ex- 
ceed the  weekly  allowance  of  bread  and  meat  that 
the  Food  Controller  tells  me  is  sufficient.  If  we  are 
all  going  to  starve  by  the  middle  of  May,  well, 
there  it  is!  Starvation,  I  fancy,  is  an  uncomfortable 
sort  of  death,  and  I  would  much  sooner  not  suffer 
it,  but  it  is  quite  outside  my  power  to  avert  it. 
Frankly,  also,  I  do  not  believe  it  in  the  smallest 
degree.  Pessimistic  acquaintances  prove  down  to 
the  hilt  that  it  will  be  so,  and  not  knowing  any- 
thing about  the  subject,  I  am  absolutely  unable  to 
find  the  slightest  flaw  in  their  depressing  conclu- 
sions. They  seem  to  me  based  on  sound  premises, 
which  are  quite  unshakeable,  and  to  be  logically  ar- 
rived at.  But  if  you  ask  whether  I  believe  in  the 
inevitable  fate  that  is  going  to  overtake  us,  why, 
I  do  not.  It  simply  doesn't  seem  in  the  least 
likely. 

In  addition  to  this  development  of  enemy  sub- 
marine warfare  (for  our  discomfort),  there  have 
been  developments  on  the  Western  front  (we  hope 


FEBRUARY,  1917  281 

for  theirs) .  The  English  lines  have  pushed  forward 
on  both  sides  of  the  Ancre,  to  find  that  the  Ger- 
mans, anticipating  the  great  spring  offensive,  which 
appears  to  be  one  of  the  few  certain  things  in  the 
unconjecturable  unfolding  of  the  war,  have  given 
ground  without  fighting.  In  consequence  there  has 
ensued  a  pause  while  our  lines  of  communication 
have  been  brought  up  to  the  new  front  across  the 
devastated  and  tortured  terrain  which  for  so  many- 
months  has  been  torn  up  by  the  hail  of  exploding 
shells.  And  for  that,  as  for  everything  else  that  hap- 
pens, we  find  authoritative  and  contradictory  rea- 
sons. Some  say  that  the  Germans  could  not  hold 
it,  and  take  this  advance  to  be  the  first  step  in  the 
great  push  which  is  to  break  and  shatter  them; 
others  with  long  faces  and  longer  tongues  explain 
that  this  strategic  retreat  has  checkmated  our  plans 
for  the  great  push.  But  be  this  as  it  may  (I  verily 
believe  that  I  am  the  only  person  in  London  who  has 
not  been  taken  into  the  confidence  of  our  Army 
Council),  all  are  agreed  that  the  bell  has  sounded 
for  the  final  round  of  the  fight,  except  a  few  pru- 
dent folk  who  bid  us  prepare  at  once  for  the  spring 
campaign  of  1918  (though  we  are  all  going  to  be 
starved  in  1917). 

The  frost  came  to  an  end,  and  a  thaw  more  bit- 
ter and  more  congealing  to  the  blood  and  the  vital 
forces  set  in  with  cold  and  dispiriting  airs  from  the 
South-East.  For  a  week  we  paid  in  mud  and  dark- 
ness and  fog  for  the  days  of  exhilarating  weather, 


282  UP  AND  DOWN 

and  I  suppose  the  Toxophilites  took  possession  of 
the  skating  rink  again.  And  then  came  one  of 
those  miracle  days,  that  occasionally  occur  in  Feb- 
ruary or  March,  a  moulted  feather  from  the  breast 
of  the  bird  of  spring,  circling  high  in  the  air  before, 
with  descending  rustle  of  downward  wings,  it  settled 
on  the  earth.  .  .  . 

I  had  gone  down  into  the  country  for  a  couple 
of  nights,  arriving  at  the  house  where  I  was  to 
stay  at  the  close  of  one  of  those  chilly  dim-lit  Feb- 
ruary days,  after  a  traverse  of  miry  roads  between 
sodden  hedgerows  off  which  the  wind  blew  the  drops 
of  condensed  mists  that  gathered  there,  and  it 
seemed  doubtful  whether  the  moisture  would  not 
be  turned  to  icicles  before  morning.  I  had  a  stream- 
ing cold,  and  it  seemed  quite  in  accordance  with 
the  existing  "scheme  of  things  entire'^  that  the 
motor  (open  of  course)  should  break  down  on  the 
steep  ascent,  and  demand  half  an  hour's  tinkering 
before  it  would  move  again.  Eventually  I  arrived, 
only  to  find  that  my  hostess  had  gone  to  bed  that 
afternoon  with  influenza,  having  telegraphed  too 
late  to  stop  me,  and  that  the  two  other  guests  were 
not  coming  till  next  day. 

Now  I  am  no  foe,  on  principle,  to  a  solitary  eve- 
ning. There  is  a  great  deal  to  be  said  for  dining 
quite  alone,  with  a  book  propped  up  against  the 
candlestick,  a  rapid  repast,  some  small  necessary 
task  (or  more  book)  to  while  away  an  hour  or  two 
in  a  useful  or  pleasant  manner,  and  the  sense  of 
virtue  which  accompanies  an  early  retirement  to  bed. 


FEBRUARY,  1917  283 

But  all  this  has  to  be  anticipated,  if  not  arranged, 
and  I  found  a  very  different  programme.  I  dined 
in  a  stately  manner,  and  dish  after  dish  (anyone 
who  dines  alone  never  wants  more  than  two  things 
to  eat)  was  presented  to  my  notice.  At  the  con- 
clusion of  this  repast,  which  would  have  been  quite 
delicious  had  there  only  been  somebody  to  enjoy 
it  with  me,  or  even  if  all  sense  of  taste  had  not  been 
utterly  obliterated  by  catarrh,  I  was  conducted  to 
the  most  palatial  room  that  I  know  in  any  English 
house,  and  shut  in  with  the  evening  paper,  a  roar- 
ing fire,  half  a  dozen  of  the  finest  Reynolds  and 
Romneys  in  the  world  sailing  about  and  smiling  on 
the  walls,  and  the  news  that  my  hostess  was  far 
from  well,  but  hoped  I  had  everything  I  wanted. 
As  a  matter  of  fact  I  had  nothing  I  wanted,  because 
I  wanted  somebody  to  talk  to,  though  I  had  the 
most  sumptuous  milieu  of  things  that  I  didn't  want. 
Reynolds  and  Romney  and  a  grand  piano  and  an 
array  of  books  and  a  box  of  cigars  were  of  no  earthly 
use  to  me  just  then,  because  I  wanted  to  be  with 
something  alive,  and  no  achievement  in  mere  ma- 
terial could  take  the  place  of  a  living  thing.  I 
would  humbly  have  asked  the  footman  who  brought 
me  my  coffee-cup,  or  the  butler  who  so  generously 
filled  it  for  me  to  stop  and  talk,  or  play  cards,  or 
do  anything  they  enjoyed  doing,  if  I  had  thought 
that  there  was  the  smallest  chance  of  their  consent- 
ing. But  I  saw  from  their  set  formal  faces  that 
they  would  only  have  thought  me  mad,  and  I  sup- 
posed that  the  reputation  for  sanity  should  not  be 


284  UP  AND  DOWN 

thrown  away  unless  there  was  something  to  be 
gained  from  the  hazard.  And  where  was  the  use 
of  going  to  bed  at  half-past  nine? 

The  most  hopeful  object  in  the  room  was  the  fire, 
for  it  had  some  semblance  of  real  life  about  it.  True, 
it  was  only  a  make-believe:  that  roaring  energy  was 
really  no  more  than  a  destructive  process.  But  it 
glowed  and  coruscated;  the  light  of  its  consuming 
logs  leaped  on  the  walls  in  jovial  defiance  of  this 
sombre  and  solitary  evening,  it  blazed  forth  a  chal- 
lenge against  the  depressing  elements  of  wet  and 
cold.  It  was  elemental  itself,  and  though  it  was 
destructive,  it  was  yet  the  source  of  all  life  as  well 
as  its  end.  It  warmed  and  comforted;  to  sit  near 
its  genial  warmth  was  a  make-believe  of  basking 
in  the  sun  to  those  who  had  groped  through  an  end- 
less autumn  and  winter  of  dark  days.  The  sun- 
shine that  had  made  the  trees  put  forth  the  branches 
that  were  now  burning  on  the  hearth  was  stored 
in  them,  and  was  being  released  again  in  warmth  and 
flame.  It  was  but  bottled  sunshine,  so  to  speak, 
but  there  was  evidence  in  it  that  there  once  had 
been  sunshine,  and  that  encouraged  the  hope  that 
one  day  there  would  be  sunshine  again. 

Quite  suddently  I  became  aware  that  some  huge 
subtle  change  had  taken  place.  It  was  not  that  my 
dinner  and  the  fire  had  warmed  and  comforted  me, 
but  it  came  from  outside.  Something  was  happen- 
ing there,  though  it  never  occurred  to  me  to  guess 
what  it  was.    But  I  pushed  back  my  chair  from  the 


FEBRUARY,  1917  285 

imitation  of  summer  that  sparkled  on  the  hearth, 
drew  back  the  curtain  from  the  window  that  opened 
on  to  the  terrace,  and  stepped  out.  And  then  I 
knew  what  it  was,  for  spring  had  come. 

The  rain  had  ceased,  the  clouds  that  had  blank- 
eted the  sky  two  hours  before  had  been  pushed  and 
packed  away  into  a  low  bank  in  the  West,  and  a 
crescent  moon  was  swung  high  in  the  mid-heaven. 
And  whether  it  was  that  by  miraculous  dispensation 
my  cold,  which  for  days  had  inhibited  the  powers  of 
sense  and  taste,  stood  away  from  me  for  a  moment, 
or  whether  certain  smells  are  perceived,  not  by  the 
clumsy  superficial  apparatus  of  material  sense,  but 
by  some  inward  recognition,  I  drank  in  that  odour 
which  is  among  the  most  significant  things  that  can 
be  conveyed  to  the  mortal  sense,  the  smell  of  the 
damp  fruitful  earth  touched  once  again  with  the 
eternal  spell  of  life.  You  cail  often  smell  damp 
earth  on  summer  mornings  or  after  summer  rain, 
when  it  is  coupled  with  the  odour  of  green  leaves  or 
flowers,  or  on  an  autumn  morning,  when  there  is 
infused  into  it  the  stale  sharp  scent  of  decaying 
foliage,  but  only  once  or  twice  in  the  year,  and 
that  when  the  first  feather  from  the  breast  of  spring 
falls  to  the  ground,  can  you  experience  that  thrill 
of  promise  that  speaks  not  of  what  is,  but  of  what 
is  coming.  It  is  just  damp  earth,  but  earth  which 
holds  in  suspense  that  which  makes  the  sap  stream 
out  to  the  uttermost  finger-tips  of  the  trees,  and 
burst  in  squibs  of  green.  Not  growth  itself,  but 
the  potentiality  of  growth  is  there.    The  earth  says, 


286  UP  AND  DOWN 

"Behold,  I  make  all  things  new!"  and  the  germs  of 
life,  the  seeds  and  the  bulbs,  and  all  that  is  wait- 
ing for  spring,  strain  upwards  and  put  forth  the 
green  spears  that  pierce  the  soil.  But  earth,  young 
everlasting  Mother  Earth,  must  first  issue  her  invi- 
tation; says  she,  "I  am  ready,"  and  lies  open  to 
the  renewal  of  life.  ... 

I  hope  that  however  long  I  happen  to  inhabit  this 
delightful  planet,  I  shall  never  outlive  that  secret 
call  of  spring.  When  you  are  young  it  calls  to  you 
more  physically,  and  you  go  out  into  the  moonlit 
night,  or  out  into  the  dark,  while  the  rain  drips  on 
you,  and  somehow  you  make  yourself  one  with  it, 
digging  with  your  fingers  into  the  earth,  or  clinging 
to  a  wet  tree-bough  in  some  blind  yearning  for 
communion  with  the  life  that  tingles  through  the 
world.  But  when  you  are  older,  you  do  not,  I  hope, 
become  in  the  least  wiser,  if  by  wisdom  is  implied 
the  loss  of  that  exquisite  knowledge  of  the  call  of 
spring.  You  have  learned  that:  it  is  yours,  it  has 
grown  into  your  bones,  and  it  is  impossible  to 
experience  as  new  what  you  already  possess.  You 
act  the  play  no  longer;  it  is  for  you  to  sit  and  watch 
it,  and  the  test  of  your  freedom  from  fatigued  sen- 
ility, your  certificate  to  that  effect,  will  lie  in  the 
fact  that  you  will  observe  with  no  less  rapture  than 
you  once  enjoyed.  You  stand  a  little  apart,  you 
must  watch  it  now,  not  take  active  part  in  it.  But 
you  will  have  learned  the  lesson  of  spring  and  the 
lesson  of  life  very  badly  if  you  turn  your  back  on 
it.     For  the  moment  you  turn  your  back  on  it, 


FEBRUARY,  1917  287 

or  yawn  in  your  stall  when  that  entrancing  drama 
of  unconscious  youth  is  played  in  front  of  you, 
whether  the  actors  are  the  moon  and  the  dripping 
shrubs  and  the  smell  of  damp  earth,  or  a  boy  and 
a  girl  making  love  in  a  flowery  lane  or  in  a  back- 
yard, you  declare  yourself  old.  If  the  upspringing 
of  life,  the  tremulous  time,  evokes  no  thrill  in  you, 
the  best  place  (and  probably  the  most  comfortable) 
for  you  is  the  grave.  On  the  other  side  of  the 
grave  there  may  be  a  faint  possibility  of  your  be- 
coming young  again  (which,  after  all,  is  the  only 
thing  it  is  worth  while  being),  but  on  this  side  of 
the  grave  you  don't  seem  able  to  manage  it.  God 
forbid  that  on  this  side  of  the  grave  you  should 
become  a  grizzly  kitten,  and  continue  dancing  about 
and  playing  with  the  blind-cord  long  after  you  ought 
to  have  learned  better,  but  playing  with  the  blind- 
cord  is  one  of  the  least  important  methods  of  mani- 
festing youth.  .  .  . 

I  was  recalled  from  the  terrace  by  decorous  clink- 
ings  within,  and  went  indoors  to  find  the  butler 
depositing  a  further  tray  of  syphons  and  spirits  on 
the  table,  and  wishing  to  know  at  what  time  I 
wished  to  be  called.  On  which,  taking  this  as  a 
hint  that  before  I  was  called,  I  certainly  had  to  go 
to  bed  (else  how  could  I  be  called?),  I  went  upstairs, 
and  letting  the  night  of  spring  pour  into  my  room, 
put  off  into  clear  shallow  tides  of  sleep,  grounding 
sometimes,  and  once  more  being  conscious  of  the 
night  wind  stirring  about  my  room,  and  sliding  off 
again  into  calm  and  sunlit  waters.    Often  sleep  and 


288  UP  AND  DOWN 

consciousness  were  mixed  up  together;  I  was  aware 
of  the  window  curtains  swaying  in  the  draught 
while  I  lay  in  a  back-water  of  calm,  and  then  simul- 
taneously, so  it  seemed,  it  was  not  this  mature  and 
middle-aged  I  who  lay  there,  but  myself  twenty-five 
years  ago,  eager  and  expectant  and  flushed  with  the 
authentic  call  of  spring.  By  some  dim  dream-like 
double-consciousness  I  could  observe  the  young  man 
who  lay  in  my  place;  I  knew  how  the  young  fool 
felt,  and  envied  him  a  little,  and  then  utterly  ceased 
to  envy  him,  just  because  /  had  been  that,  and  had 
sucked  the  honey  out  of  what  he  felt,  and  had 
digested  it  and  made  it  mine.  It  was  part  of  me: 
where  was  the  profit  in  asking  for  or  wanting  what 
I  had  got? 

There  we  lay,  he  and  I,  while  the  night  wheeled 
round  the  earth,  which  was  not  sleeping,  but  was 
alert  and  awake.  Some  barrier  that  the  past  years 
thought  they  had  set  up  between  us  was  utterly 
battered  down  by  those  stirrings  of  spring,  and  all 
night  I  lay  side  by  side  with  the  boy  that  I  had  been. 
He  whispered  to  me  his  surmises  and  his  desires,  as 
he  conceived  them  in  the  wonder  of  spring  nights, 
when  he  lay  awake  for  the  sheer  excitement  of  being 
alive  and  of  having  the  world  in  front  of  him.  He 
wound  himself  more  and  more  closely  to  me,  nudg- 
ing me  with  his  elbow  to  drive  into  me  the  urgency 
of  his  schemes  and  dreams,  and  I  recognized  the 
reality  of  them.  How  closely  he  clung!  How  in- 
sistent was  his  demand  that  I  should  see  with  his 
eyes,  and  listen  with  his  ears,  and  write  with  his 


FEBRUARY,  1917  289 

hand.  And,  fool  though  he  was,  and  little  as  I  re- 
spected him,  I  could  not  help  having  a  sort  of  ten- 
derness for  him  and  his  youth  and  his  eagerness  and 
his  ignorance. 

"I  want  so  awfully,"  he  repeated.  "Surely  if  I 
want  a  thing  enough  I  shall  get  it.     Isn't  that  so?'' 

"Yes;  that  is  usually  the  case,"  said  I. 

"Well,  I  want  as  much  as  I  can  want,"  he  said. 
"And  yet,  if  you  are  what  I  shall  be  (and  I  feel  that 
is  so),  you  haven't  got  it  yet.    Why  is  that?" 

"Perhaps  you  aren't  wanting  enough,"  said  I. 
"To  get  it,  would  you  give  up  everything  else,  would 
you  live,  if  necessary,  in  squalor  and  friendlessness? 
Would  you  put  up  with  complete  failure,  as  the 
world  counts  failure?"      z 

He  drew  a  little  away  from  me ;  his  tense  arm  got 
slack  and  heavy. 

"But  there's  no  question  of  failure,"  he  said.  "If 
I  get  it,  that  means  success." 

"But  it's  a  question  of  whether  you  will  eagerly 
suffer  anything  that  can  happen  sooner  than  relin- 
quish your  idea.  Can  you  cling  to  your  idea,  what- 
ever happens?" 

He  was  silent  a  moment. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said. 

"That  means  you  aren't  wanting  enough,"  said  I. 
"And  you  don't  take  trouble  enough.  You  never 
do." 

"I  wonder!  Is  that  why  you  haven't  got  all  I 
want?" 

"Probably.    One  of  the  reasons,  at  any  rate.    An- 


290  UP  AND  DOWN 

other  is  that  we  are  meant  to  fail.  That's  what  we 
are  here  for.  Just  to  go  on  failing,  and  go  on  trying 
again." 

"Oh,  how  awfully  sad!     But  I  don't  believe  it." 

"It's  true.  But  it's  also  true  that  you  have  to  go 
on  acting  as  if  you  didn't  believe  it.  You  will  get 
nothing  done  if  you  believe  it  when  you're  young." 

And  do  you  believe  it  now?"  he  asked. 

"Rather  not.    But  it's  true." 

He  left  me  and  moved  away  to  the  window. 

"It's  the  first  night  of  spring,"  he  said.  "I  must 
go  and  run  through  the  night.  Why  don't  you 
come  too?" 

"Because  you  can  do  it  for  me." 

"Good-night  then,"  he  said,  and  jumped  out  of 
the  window. 

All  the  next  morning  spring  vibrated  in  the  air; 
the  bulbs  in  the  garden-beds  felt  the  advent  of  the 
tremulous  time,  and  pushed  up  little  erect  horns  of 
vigorous  close-packed  leaf,  and  the  great  downs  be- 
yond the  garden  were  already  flushed  with  the  vivid 
green  of  new  growth,  that  embroidered  itself  among 
the  grey  faded  autumn  grass.  A  blackbird  fluted  in 
the  thicket,  a  thrush  ran  twinkle-footed  on  to  the 
lawn,  and  round  the  house-eaves  in  the  ivy  sparrows 
pulled  about  straws  and  dead  leaves,  practising  for 
nesting- time ;  and  the  scent,  oh,  the  scent  of  the 
moist  earth!  In  these  few  hours  the  whole  aspect 
of  the  world  was  changed,  the  stagnation  of  winter 
was  gone,  and  though  cold  and  frost  might  come 


FEBRUARY,  1917  291 

back  again,  life  was  on  the  move ;  the  great  tide  had 
begun  to  flow,  that  should  presently  flood  the  earth 
with  blossom  and  bird-song.  Never,  even  in  the 
days  when  first  the  wand  of  spring  was  waved  before 
my  enchanted  eyes,  have  I  known  its  spell  so  rap- 
turously working,  nor  felt  a  sweeter  compulsion  in 
its  touch,  which  makes  old  men  dream  dreams  and 
middle-aged  men  see  visions  so  that  all  for  an  hour 
or  two  open  the  leaves  of  the  rose-scented  manu- 
script again,  and  hear  once  more  the  intoxicating 
music,  and  read  with  renewed  eyes  the  rhapsody 
that  is  recited  at  the  opening  of  the  high  mass  of 
youth.  The  years  may  be  dropping  their  snow- 
flakes  on  to  our  heads,  and  the  plough  of  time  mak- 
ing long  furrows  on  our  faces,  but  never  perhaps  till 
the  day  when  the  silver  bowl  is  broken,  and  the 
spirit  goes  to  God  Who  gave  it,  must  we  fail  to  feel 
the  thrill  and  immortal  youth  of  the  first  hours  of 
spring-time.  And  who  knows  whether  all  that  this 
divine  moment  wakes  in  us  here  may  not  be  but  the 
faint  echo,  heard  by  half-awakened  ears,  the  dim  re- 
flection, seen  in  a  glass  darkly  of  the  everlasting 
spring  which  shall  dawn  on  us  then? 


MARCH,  1917 

Never  has  there  been  a  March  so  compounded  of 
squalls  and  snows  and  unseasonable  inclemencies. 
Verily  I  believe  that  my  Lobgesang  of  that  spring 
day  in  February  was  maliciously  transmitted  to  the 
powers  of  the  air,  and,  so  far  from  being  pleased  with 
my  distinguished  approval,  they  merely  said: 
"Very  well ;  we  will  see  what  else  we  can  do,  if  you 
like  our  arrangements  so  much."  Indeed,  it  looks 
like  that,  for  we  all  know  how  the  powers  of  Nature 
(the  unpleasant  variety  of  them)  seem  to  concen- 
trat  themselves  on  the  fact  of  some  harmless  indi- 
vidual giving  a  picnic,  or  other  outdoor  festivity,  for 
which  sun  and  fine  weather  is  the  indispensable 
basis.  But  now  in  a  few  days  I  shall  defy  them,  for 
I  do  not  believe  that  their  jurisdiction  extends  to 
Italy. 

Italy :  yes,  I  said  Italy,  for  at  last  an  opportunity 
and  a  cause  have  presented  themselves,  and  I  am 
going  out  there  "at  the  end  of  this  month,  D.V."  (as 
the  clergyman  said),  "or  early  in  April,  anyhow." 
Rome  is  the  first  objective,  and  then  (or  I  am  much 
mistaken)  there  will  be  an  interval  of  Alatri,  and 
then  Rome  again  and  Alatri  again:  a  sumptuous 
sandwich.  How  I  have  longed  for  something  of  the 
sort  in  these  two  years  and  a  half  of  insular  northern 
existence  I   cannot  hope  to   convey.     Perhaps  at 

292 


MARCH,  1917  293 

last  I  have  reached  that  point  of  wanting  which  en- 
sures fulfilment,  but  though  I  am  interested  in  fan- 
tastic psychology,  I  don't  really  care  how  the  fulfil- 
ment came  now  that  it  has  come. 

I  have  had  no  word  from  Francis  since  his  letter 
last  month  from  the  Italian  front,  announcing  his 
departure  for  Rome.  He  mentioned  that  he  hoped 
to  go  to  Alatri,  and  since  he  did  not  give  me  his 
address  in  Rome,  I  telegraphed  to  the  island,  an- 
nouncing my  advent  at  the  end  of  March  or  early 
in  April.  Rather  to  my  surprise  I  got  the  following 
answer  from  Alatri : 

"Was  meaning  to  write.  Come  out  end  of  March 
if  possible.    Shall  be  here." 

For  no  very  clear  reason  this  somewhat  perturbed 
me.  There  was  no  cause  for  perturbation,  if  one 
examined  the  grounds  of  disquietude,  for  if  he  was 
ill  he  would  surely  have  told  me  so  before.  Far 
the  more  probable  interpretation  was  that  he  had 
already  forgotten  about  his  discomforts  and  his  very 
depressed  letter,  and  was  snatching  a  few  rapturous 
days  now  and  then  from  Rome,  and  spending  them 
on  the  island.  He  might  foresee  that  he  could  do 
this  again  at  the  end  of  the  month,  and  wanted  me 
to  come  then,  because  he  would  be  back  at  the  front 
in  April.  That  all  held  water,  whereas  the  con- 
jecture that  he  was  ill  did  not.  But  though  I  told 
myself  this  a  good  many  times,  I  did  not  completely 


294  UP  AND  DOWN 

trust  my  rendering,  and  his  silence  both  before  and 
after  this  telegram  was  rather  inexplicable.  My 
reasonable  self  told  me  that  there  was  no  shadow  of 
cause  for  anxiety,  but  something  inside  me  that  ob- 
served from  a  more  intimate  spy-hole  than  that  of 
reason  was  not  quite  satisfied.  However,  as  the 
days  of  March  went  by  and  the  time  for  my  depar- 
ture got  really  within  focus,  this  instinctive  and  un- 
reasonable questioning  grew  less  insistent,  and 
finally,  as  if  it  had  been  a  canary  that  annoyed  me 
by  its  chatter,  I  put,  so  to  speak,  the  green  baize  of 
reason  quite  over  it  and  silenced  it.  Soon  I  shall 
be  sitting  on  the  pergola,  where  the  shadows  of  the 
vine-leaves  dance  on  the  paving-stones,  telling 
Francis  how  yet  another  of  my  famous  presenti- 
ments had  been  added  the  list  of  failures. 

And,  indeed,  there  were  plenty  of  other  things  to 
think  about.  Bellona,  goddess  of  war,  has  come  out 
of  her  winter  reverie,  where,  with  her  mantle  roun^ 
her  mouthy  she  has  lain  with  steadfast  eyes  unclosed, 
waiting  her  time.  All  these  last  months  she  has  but 
moved  a  drowsy  hand,  just  sparring,  but  now  she  has 
sprung  up  and  cast  her  mantle  from  her  mouth,  and 
yelled  to  her  attendant  spirits  "Wake!  for  winter  is 
gone  and  spring  is  here!''  And,  day  by  day,  fresh 
news  has  come  of  larger  movements  and  the  stir  of 
greater  forces.  In  Mesopotamia  an  advance  began 
late  in  February,  and  gathering  volume,  like  an 
avalanche  rushing  down  a  snow-clad  cliff,  it  thun- 
dered on  with  ever-increasing  velocity  till  one  morn- 
ing we  heard  that  the  Baghdad  city  was  reached  and 


MARCH,  1917  295 

fell  into  the  hands  of  the  British  expedition.  And 
still  it  rolls  on  with  its  broad  path  swept  clean  be- 
hind it.  .  .  . 

Simultaneously  the  advance  on  the  French  front 
has  continued,  though  without  anything  approach- 
ing a  battle,  as  battles  are  reckoned  nowadays.  The 
Germans  have  been  unable  to  hold  their  line,  and 
retreating  (I  am  sorry  to  say)  in  a  masterly  manner, 
have  given  us  hundreds  of  square  miles  of  territory. 
The  ridge  of  Bapaume,  which  held  out  against  the 
Somme  offensive  of  last  summer,  has  fallen  into  our 
hands;  so,  too,  has  Peronne.  True  to  the  highest 
and  noblest  precepts  of  Kultur,  the  enemy  in  their 
retreat  have  poisoned  wells,  have  smashed  up  all 
houses  and  cottages  with  their  contents,  down  to 
mirrors  and  chairs;  have  slashed  to  pieces  the  plants 
and  trees  in  gardens,  in  vineyards  and  orchards; 
have  destroyed  by  fire  and  bomb  all  that  was  de- 
structible, and  have,  of  course,  taken  with  them 
women  and  girls.  The  movement  has  been  on  a 
very  large  scale,  and  the  strategists  who  stay  at 
home  have  been  very  busy  over  telling  us  what  it 
all  means,  and  the  "best  authority"  has  been  very 
plentifully  invoked.  The  optimist  has  been  in- 
formed that  the  enemy  have  literally  been  blown 
out  of  their  trenches,  and  tell  us  that  a  headlong 
retreat  that  will  not  stop  till  it  reaches  the  Rhine 
has  begun,  while  the  pessimist  sees  in  the  movement 
only  a  strategical  retreat  which  will  shorten  the  Ger- 
man line,  and  enable  the  enemy  both  to  send  rein- 
forcements to  other  fronts,  and  establish  himself 


296  UP  AND  DOWN 

with  ever  greater  security  on  what  is  known  as  the 
"Hindenburg  Line."  The  retreat,  in  fact,  according 
to  the  pessimist  (and  in  this  the  published  German 
accounts  agree  with  him)  is  a  great  German  success, 
which  has  rendered  ineffective  all  the  Allies'  prepara- 
tions for  a  spring  offensive.  According  to  the  opti- 
mist, we  have  taken,  the  French  and  we,  some  three 
hundred  square  miles  of  territory,  some  strongly 
fortified  German  positions,  at  a  minimum  of  cost. 
Out  of  all  this  welter  of  conflicting  opinion  two  in- 
contestable facts  emerge,  the  one  that  the  enemy 
was  unable  to  hold  their  line,  the  other  that  their 
retreat  has  cost  them  very  little  in  men,  and  nothing 
at  all  in  guns. 

In  the  midst  of  the  excitement  in  the  West  has 
come  a  prodigious  happening  from  Russia.  For  sev- 
eral days  there  had  been  rumours  of  riots  and  risings 
in  Petrograd,  but  no  authentic  news  came  through 
till  one  morning  we  woke  to  find  that  a  revolution 
had  taken  place,  that  the  Tzar  had  abdicated  for 
himself  and  the  Tzarevitch,  and  that  already  a 
National  Government  had  been  established,  which 
was  speedily  recognized  by  the  Ambassadors  of  the 
various  Powers.  At  one  blow  all  the  pro-German 
party  in  Russia,  which  had  for  its  centre  the  min- 
isters and  intriguers  surrounding  the  Imperial  Fam- 
ily, had  been  turned  out  by  the  revolutionists,  and 
the  work  that  began  with  the  murder  of  Rasputin 
at  the  end  of  December  had  been  carried  to  comple- 
tion. The  Army  and  the  Navy  had  declared  for  the 
new  National  Government,  and  the  work  of  the 


MARCH,  1917 

National  Government  after  the  extirpation  of  Ger- 
man influence  was  to  be  the  united  effort  of  the 
Russian  people  to  bring  the  war  to  a  victorious  close. 
The  thing  was  done  before  we  in  the  West  knew  any 
more  than  muttered  rumours  told  us;  it  came  to 
birth  full-grown,  as  Athens  was  born  from  the  head 
of  Zeus.  There  are  a  thousand  difficulties  and  dan- 
gers ahead,  for  the  entire  government  of  a  huge 
people,  involving  the  downfall  of  autocracy,  cannot 
be  changed  as  you  change  a  suit  of  clothes,  but  the 
great  thing  has  been  accomplished,  and  at  the  head 
of  affairs  in  Russia  to-day  are  not  the  Imperial 
marionettes  bobbing  and  gesticulating  on  their  Ger- 
man wires,  but  those  who  represent  the  people.  A 
thousand  obscure  issues  are  involved  in  the  move- 
ment: we  do  not  know  for  certain  yet  whether  the 
Grand  Duke  Michael  is  Tzar  of  all  the  Russias,  or 
the  Grand  Duke  Nicholas  the  head  of  the  Russian 
armies,  or  whether  the  whole  family  of  Romanoffs 
have  peeled  off  and  thrown  aside  like  an  apple- 
paring  ;  what  is  certain  is  that  some  form  of  national 
government  has  taken  the  place  of  a  Germanized 
autocracy.  How  stable  that  will  prove  itself,  and 
whether  it  will  be  able  to  set  the  derelict  steam- 
roller at  work  again  and  start  it  on  its  way  remains 
to  be  seen.  For  myself,  I  shout  with  the  optimists, 
but  certainly,  if  the  crisis  is  over  and  there  actually 
is  now  in  power  a  firm  and  national  Government, 
capable  of  directing  the  destinies  of  the  country,  it 
will  have  been  the  most  wonderful  revolution  that 
ever  happened. 


298  UP  AND  DOWN 

And  then,  even  earlier  than  I  had  dared  to  hope, 
for  I  had  not  expected  to  get  away  before  the  last 
week  in  March,  came  that  blessed  moment,  when 
one  night  at  Waterloo  Station  the  guard's  whistle 
sounded,  and  we  slid  off  down  the  steel  ribands  to 
Southampton.  In  itself,  to  any  who  has  the  least 
touch  of  the  travelling  or  gipsy  mind,  to  start  on  a 
long  journey,  to  cross  the  sea,  to  go  out  of  one  coun- 
try and  into  another  where  men  think  different 
thoughts  and  speak  a  different  language,  is  one  of 
the  most  real  and  essential  refreshments  of  life,  even 
when  he  leaves  behind  him  peace  and  entertainment 
and  content.  For  two  years  and  a  half,  if  you  ex- 
cept those  little  niggardly  journeys  that  are  scarce 
worth  while  getting  into  the  train  for,  I  had  lived 
without  once  properly  moving,  and,  oh,  the  rapture 
of  knowing  that  when  I  got  out  of  this  train,  it  was 
t  oget  on  to  a  boat,  and  when  I  got  out  of  the  boat 
(barring  the  exit  entailed  by  a  mine  or  a  submarine), 
it  would  be  to  get  into  another  train,  and  yet  another 
train,  and  at  the  Italian  frontier  another  train  yet, 
all  moving  southwards.  Then  once  more  there 
would  be  a  boat,  and  after  that  the  garden  at  Alatri, 
and  the  stone-pine  and  Francis.  Even  had  I  been 
credibly  informed  by  the  angel  Gabriel  or  some  such 
unimpeachable  authority  that  the  chances  were  two 
to  one  that  the  Southampton  boat  would  be  tor- 
pedoed, I  really  believe  I  should  have  gone,  and 
taken  the  other  chance  in  the  hope  of  getting  safely 
across  and,  for  the  present,  leaving  England  (which 
I  love)  and  all  the  friends  whom  I  love  also,  firmly 


MARCH,  1917  299 

and  irrevocably  behind.  I  wanted  (as  the  doctors 
say)  a  change,  not  of  climate  only,  but  of  every- 
thing else  that  makes  up  life,  people  and  things  and 
moral  atmosphere  and  occupations.  I  was  aware 
that  there  were  some  thousands  of  people  then  in 
London  who  wanted  the  same  thing  and  could  not 
get  it,  and  I  am  afraid  that  that  added  a  certain  edge 
to  ecstasy.  To  get  away  from  the  people  I  knew 
and  from  the  nation  to  which  I  belonged  was  the 
very  pith  of  this  remission.  -A  few  hours  ago,  too, 
I  had  been  hunting  the  columns  of  newspapers  and 
watching  the  ticking  tape  to  get  the  very  last  possi- 
ble pieces  of  information  about  all  the  events  of 
which  I  have  just  given  the  summary,  and  now 
part  and  parcel  of  my  delight  was  to  think  that  for 
many  hours  to  come  I  should  not  see  a  tape  or  a 
newspaper.  The  war  had  been  levelled  at  me,  at 
point-blank  range;  for  two  years  and  a  half  I  had 
never  been  certain  that  the  very  next  moment  some 
new  report  would  not  be  fired  at  me  (and,  indeed,  I 
intentionally  drew  such  fire  upon  myself) ;  but  now 
I  had  got  out  of  that  London  newspaper  office,  and 
was  flying  through  the  dark  night  southwards. 
Here  in  England  everything  was  soaked  in  the  asso- 
ciations of  war  (though  the  most  we  had  seen  of  it 
was  two  or  three  futile  Zeppelins),  but  in  Alatri, 
which  I  had  never  known  except  in  conditions  of 
peace  and  serenity  its  detonation  and  the  smoke  of 
its  burning  would  surely  be  but  a  drowsy  peal  of 
thunder,  a  mist  on  the  horizon,  instead  of  that  all- 
encompassing  fog  out  of  which  leaped  the  flash  of 


300  UP  AND  DOWN 

explosions.  I  wanted  desperately,  selfishly,  unpatri- 
otically,  to  get  out  of  it  all  for  a  bit,  and  Alatri,  in 
intervals  of  Rome,  beckoned  like  the  promised  land. 
I  am  aware  that  a  Latin  poet  tells  us  that  a  change 
of  climate  obtained  by  a  sea-voyage  does  not  alter 
a  man's  mind,  but  I  felt  convinced  he  was  mistaken. 
Throughout  that  delightful  journey  my  expecta- 
tions mounted.  First  came  the  windy  quay  at 
Southampton,  the  stealing  out  into  the  night  with 
shuttered  portholes,  and  in  the  early  morning  ihe 
arrival  at  Havre.  Then  for  a  moment  I  almost 
thought  that  some  ghastly  practical  joke  had  been 
played  on  us  passengers,  and  that  we  had  put  back 
again  into  a  British  port,  so  Anglicized  and  khakied 
did  the  town  appear.  But  no  such  unseemly  jest 
had  been  played,  and  that  night  I  slept  in  Paris, 
and  woke  to  find  a  chilly  fog  over  that  lucent  city, 
which  again  sent  qualms  of  apprehension  through 
me,  for  fear  that  by  some  cantrip  trick  this  might  be 
London  again,  and  my  fancied  journey  but  a  dream. 
But  the  dream  every  hour  proved  itself  real,  for 
again  I  was  in  the  train  that  started  from  the  Gare 
de  Lyon,  and  not  from  my  bedroom  or  the  top  of 
the  Eiffel  Tower,  as  would  have  been  the  wont  of 
dreams,  and  in  due  time  there  was  Aix-les-Bains 
with  its  white  poplars  and  silvery  lake,  and  the  long 
pull  upwards  to  Modane,  and  the  great  hillside 
through  which  the  tunnel  went,  with  wreaths  of 
snow  still  large  on  its  northern  slopes,  and  when  we 
came  out  of  the  darkness  again,  we  had  passed  into 
the  '^land  of  lands."    The  mountain  valleys  were 


MARCH,  1917  301 

still  grey  with  winter,  but  it  was  Italy;  and  pres- 
ently, as  we  sped  clanking  downwards,  the  chestnut 
trees  were  in  leaf,  and  the  petroleum  tins  stood  on 
the  rails  of  wooden  balconies  with  carnations  already 
in  bud,  and  on  the  train  was  a  risotto  for  lunch  and 
a  dray  and  abominable  piece  of  veal,  which,  insignifi- 
cant in  themselves,  were  like  some  signal  that  indi- 
cated Italy.  The  dry  veal  and  the  risotto  and  the 
budding  chestnut  trees  and  the  unwearied  benefi- 
cence of  the  sun  were  all  signals  of  the  Beloved: 
tokens  of  the  presence  that,  after  so  long,  I  was 
beginning  to  realize  again.  And  then  the  great 
hopeless  station  of  Turin  happened,  where  nobody 
can  ever  find  the  place  he  wants,  and  trains  steal 
out  from  the  platform  where  he  has  left  them,  and 
hide  themselves  again,  guarded  by  imperious  ofi&cials 
in  cocked  hats  at  subtly-concealed  side  tracks,  es- 
caping the  notice,  like  prudent  burglars,  of  intending 
travellers.  There  were  shrill  altercations  and  im- 
mediate reconcilements,  and  polite  salutings,  and 
finally  the  knowledge  that  all  was  well,  and  I  found 
my  hat  and  my  coat  precisely  where  I  had  left  them, 
as  in  some  conjuring  trick,  in  the  identical  compart- 
ment (though  it  and  the  train  had  moved  else- 
where), and  again  we  slid  southwards.  There  were 
olive-trees  now,  green  in  a  calm  air,  and  grey  when 
the  wind  struck  them,  and  little  ruined  castles  stuck 
on  the  tops  of  inaccessible  hills,  and  houses  painted 
pink,  and  stone-walled  vineyards,  and  dust  that 
came  in  through  the  windows,  but  it  was  the  be- 
loved Italian  dust.    Then  came  the  sea  again  on 


302  UP  AND  DOWN 

the  right-hand  side  of  the  train  (only  here  was  the 
magic  of  the  Mediterranean),  and  the  stifle  of  in- 
numerable tunnels,   punctuated   with   glimpses  of 
Portofino,  swimming  in  its  hump-backed  way  out 
into  the  tideless  sea,  and  the  huddle  of  roofs  at 
Rapallo,  and  the  bridge  at  Zoagli,  and  the  empty 
sands  at  Sestri,  and  the  blue- jackets  crowding  the 
platform  at  Spezzia.     All  this  was  real;  a  dream, 
though  the  reality  was  as  ecstatic  as  a  dream,  could 
not  have  produced  those  memories  in  their  exact 
order  and  their  accurate  sequence,  and'  when,  next 
morning,  I  awoke  somewhere  near  Rome,  I  thought 
that  the  years  of  war-time  were  the  nightmare,  and 
this  golden  morning  which  shone  on  fragments  of 
ancient  aqueducts  and  knuckled  fig-trees  was  but 
the  resumption  of  what  had  been  before  the  unquiet 
night  possessed  and  held  me.     Here  again,  as  three 
years  ago,  was  the  serene  wash  of  sun  and  southern 
air,  untroubled  and  real  and  permanent.     I  could 
open  my  mouth  and  draw  in  my  breath.     Dimly  I 
remembered  the  fogs  of  the  north,  and  almost  as 
dimly  the  fact  that  Italy  was  at  war  too,  striving  to 
put  her  foot  on  that  damnable  centipede  that  had 
emerged  from  Central  Europe  to  bite  and  to  sting 
and  to  claw  all  that  resented  its  wrigglings  and  pre- 
vented its  poisoning  of  the  world. 

I  found  that  after  four  days  in  Rome  I  was  free 
(except  for  a  wallet  of  papers  which  required  atten- 
tion), to  go  wherever  I  pleased  for  the  inside  of  a 
week,  and  you  may  judge  where  next  the  train  took 


MARCH,  1917  303 

me.  That  morning  I  had  sent  to  Francis  news  of 
my  escape  from  Rome  (how  desirous  "an  escape 
from  Rome"  would  have  sounded  a  month  ago),  and 
the  same  evening,  across  the  flames  of  the  sunset,  I 
saw  the  peaks  and  capes  of  the  island,  shaped  like 
a  harp  lying  on  its  back,  grow  from  dimmest  outline 
of  dream-shape  into  distinctness  again.  There  on 
the  left  was  the  lower  horn  of  it,  plunged  into  the 
sea;  then  came  the  inward  curve,  sloping  down- 
wards to  the  grey  cluster  of  the  town,  where  the 
fingers  of  the  player  would  be,  and  it  swelled  up- 
wards again  into  the  larger  horn  which  formed  the 
top  of  it.  Never  for  more  than  a  moment,  I  think, 
did  my  eyes  leave  some  part  of  that  exquisite  shape. 
How  often  in  the  lower  horn  of  it  had  Francis  and  I 
sat  perched  on  that  little  platform  by  the  gilded 
statue  of  Our  Lady,  looking  landwards  across  the 
blue  plain  of  sea  towards  the  streamer  of  smoke 
from  the  truncated  volcano,  or  to  the  coastland 
northwards,  where  the  port  was  whitely  strung  like 
a  line  of  pearls  along  the  shore  of  the  bay.  Just  be- 
low the  other  horn  is  the  divinest  bathing-place 
that  the  world  holds;  on  a  rock  a  hundred  yards 
from  the  shore  there  is  a  little  cave,  curtained  by 
seaweed,  and  in  it  is  a  tin  box  where  shall  be  found 
two  cigarettes  and  matches  to  match.  Those  were 
to  have  been  lit  and  smoked  within  two  months  of 
their  concealment  there,  and  that  date  has  now  long 
been  buried  beneath  the  three  years'  landslide  of 
war.  The  matches  will  certainly  be  a  mildewed 
fricassee  of  wood  pulp  and  phosphorus,  the  cigarettes 


304  UP  AND  DOWN 

an  almost  more  ignoble  blue  of  paper  and  tobacco; 
but  to-morrow  morning  I  swear  that  Francis  and  I 
will  swim  there,  and  unearth  the  remains  of  the 
serene  days  before  the  war,  and  recapture  the  jeel 
that  there  was  in  the  world  before  the  Prussian 
centipede  went  forth  on  his  doomed  errand.  Fran- 
cis, I  know,  will  hate  swimming  so  early  in  the  year 
as  this,  for  he  is  a  midsummer  bather;  but  surely 
one  who  has  been  through  the  horrors  of  Gallipoli 
and  earned  the  V.C.  in  France  will  not  absolutely 
refuse  to  go  through  this  ordeal  by  water  for  the 
sake  of  the  recovery  of  the  peace-cache.  If  it  is 
possible  to  feel  certain  of  anything,  it  is  that  to- 
morrow morning,  whatever  the  weather,  two  futile 
Englishmen,  as  happy  as  they  are  silly,  will  swim 
out  to  the  rock  below  the  higher  horn  of  the  harp, 
and  verify  the  existence  of  a  tin  box. 

The  shores  grew  clearer,  and  at  last  through  a  thin 
low-lying  haze  of  sunset  we  passed  into  the  clear 
shadow  of  the  island,  and  the  houses  and  pier  of 
the  Marina  on  which  Teresa  stood  to  welcome  the 
return  of  her  promesso,  who  was  stricken  to  death 
as  he  was  clasped  in  her  outstretched  arms,  defined 
themselves  with  the  engraved  sharpness  of  evening 
in  the  south.  As  we  entered  this  zone  of  liquid 
twilight,  I  could  see  the  fishing  boats  drawn  up  on 
the  beach,  the  open  arch  of  the  funicular  station,  the 
crowd  on  the  quay  awaiting  the  mild  daily  excite- 
ment of  the  boat  from  the  mainland,  and  at  the 
sight  of  all  those  things,  unchanged  and  peaceful, 
I  had  for  the  moment  more  strongly  than  ever  the 


MARCH,  1917  305 

sense  that  there  had  been  no  war  and  there  was  no 
war,  and  that  I  should  presently  step  back  into  the 
days  that  preceded  those  nightmare  years.  In  a 
moment  now  I  shall  be  able  to  distinguish  a  tall 
white-flannelled  figure,  who  will  wave  his  hat  as  he 
catches  sight  of  me  in  the  bow  of  the  first  disembark- 
ing boat  that  comes  from  the  steamer,  and  he  will 
move  forward  to  the  steps,  and  he  will  say  "Hullo!" 
and  I  shall  say  "Hullo!"  as  I  step  ashore  to  find 
that  to-day  is  linked  on  without  break  to  the  sum- 
mer of  1914  when  I  was  here  last.  I  may  have 
been  to  Naples  for  a  night,  or  did  I  only  leave  by 
the  morning  boat  to-day?  I  really  do  not  know.  .  .  . 
And  then  I  saw  that  Francis  was  not  among  the 
little  group  of  islanders  on  the  quay.  Probably  he 
had  not  got  the  telegram  I  sent  from  Rome  to-day, 
for  the  postmaster  of  Alatri  is  no  friend  to  telegrams, 
and,  as  I  have  often  thought,  keeps  one  in  his  desk 
for  a  day  or  two,  in  order  to  teach  you  not  to  be  in 
such  a  hurry.  And  when  he  thinks  you  have  learned 
your  lesson,  he  has  it  delivered,  two  or  three  days 
afterwards,  among  your  letters.  But  in  spite  of 
this  perfectly  adequate  method  of  accounting  for 
the  undoubted  fact  that  Francis  had  not  come  to 
meet  the  boat,  I  felt  an  inward  resurgence  of  the 
uneasiness  with  which  I  had  received  his  request 
that  I  should  come  out  in  March  if  possible,  and 
not  wait  till  April.  I  had  accounted  for  that  at 
the  time  by  a  reasonable  explanation,  and  I  could 
account,  also  reasonably,  for  his  absence.  But  I 
could  now,  as  the  funicular  railway  drew  us  up  like 


306  UP  AND  DOWN 

a  bucket  from  the  well,  into  the  higher  sunlit  slopes 
of  the  island,  account  for  both  by  one  and  the  same 
explanation.     He  was  ill  when  last  he  wrote.  .  .  . 

I  found  a  porter  in  the  Piazza,  who  shouldered  my 
luggage,  and  I  went  on  ahead,  striving  to  convince 
myself,  with  quite  decent  success,  that  I  was  being 
afraid  "even  where  no  fear  was,"  and  yielded  myself 
up,  though  I  walked  briskly  in  order  to  put  an  end 
to  my  ominous  surmises,  to  the  enchantment  of  the 
hour,  and  of  the  sense,  that  I  really  had  arrived 
again.  The  little  huddled  town,  with  the  Piazza 
from  the  doors  and  arches  of  which  any  moment  the 
chorus  of  light-opera  might  issue  with  short  skirts 
and  "catchy"  chorus,  was  quite  unchanged,  save  that 
at  this  hour  of  sunset  it  used  always  to  be  guttural 
with  Teutonic  tourists,  and  a  place  to  be  avoided  by 
the  genuine  islander.  Unchanged,  too,  was  the  nar- 
row street,  where  two  could  scarcely  walk  abreast, 
that  led  out  to  the  hillside  on  which  the  villa  was 
perched ;  there  was  the  narrow  slit  of  blue  overhead, 
and  the  vegetable  shop  and  the  tobacconist's  and  the 
trattoria  with  the  smell  of  spilt  wine  issuing  from  it 
and  the  lean  cat  blinking  at  the  doorway.  The 
same  children  apparently  ran  up  against  one's  legs, 
the  tailor  was  putting  up  his  shutters,  and  two 
Americans,  as  always,  were  buying  picture-postcards 
at  the  stationer's.  The  path  dipped  downwards, 
ran  level  between  olive  groves  and  villas,  made  a 
right  turn  and  a  left  turn,  and  there  above  me  was 
the  flight  of  steps  that  led  steeply  up  by  the  white- 
tvashed  wall  of  the  garden,  and  above  the  wall,  still 


MARCH,  1917  307 

catching  the  last  rays  of  the  sun,  was  the  stone-pine, 
and  behind  it,  greyish-white  and  green-shuttered, 
the  house,  where  in  a  minute  now  Francis  would 
welcome  me.  My  bedroom  shutters  I  saw  were 
open,  and  blankets  were  being  aired  on  the  window- 
sill,  and  this  looked  as  if  I  was  expected. 

I  opened  the  garden  gate,  pulling  at  the  string 
that  lifted  the  latch  inside,  and  a  great  wave  of  the 
scent  of  wallflower  and  freesias  poured  over  me, 
warm  fro  mtheir  day-long  sunning  underneath  the 
southern  wall,  and  intoxicatingly  sweet.  And  even 
as  I  inhaled  the  first  breath  of  it,  a  woman  came 
out  of  the  dining-room  door  that  opens  on  to  the 
terrace.  She  was  dressed  in  the  uniform  of  a  hos- 
pital nurse. 

^'We  were  expecting  you,"  she  said,  speaking  with 
that  precise  utterance  of  foreigners.  ^'1  hope  you 
have  had  a  good  journey." 

The  scent  of  the  freesias  suddenly  sickened  me. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  I  asked.  "What  has  hap- 
pened?" 

"He  wants  to  tell  you  himself,"  she  said. 

"He?    And  is  it  serious?" 

She  looked  at  me  with  that  calm,  untroubled  sym- 
pathy that  is  the  reward  of  those  who  give  up  their 
lives  to  mitigate  suffering. 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "It  is  very  serious.  Will  you 
go  up  and  see  him  now?" 

"Surely.    Where  is  he?" 

"In  his  bedroom.  The  third  door  along  the  pas- 
sage.    Ah,  I  forgot;  of  course  you  know." 


308  UP  AND  DOWN 

He  was  lying  much  propped  up  in  bed,  opposite 
the  open  window,  and  as  he  turned  towards  the  door 
at  my  entry,  I  thought  that  this  must  be  some 
wicked,  inexplicable  joke,  so  radiant  and  young  and 
normal  was  his  face. 

"Ah,  that's  splendid!"  he  said.  "It  was  ripping 
getting  your  telegram  this  morning." 

"Francis,  what's  the  matter?"  I  asked.  "Why  are 
you  in  bed?    Why  is  there  a  nurse  here?" 

He  had  not  let  go  of  my  hand,  and  now  he  clasped 
it  more  closely. 

"I'll  tell  you  the  end  first,"  he  said;  "quickly;  just 
in  one  word.  I'm  dying.  I  can't  live  more  than  a 
few  weeks." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  not  prolonged,  but 
at  the  end  of  it  I  felt  that  I  had  known  this  for 
years. 

"Will  you  hear  all  about  it  from  the  beginning?" 
he  asked.     "Or  would  it  bore  you?" 

He  was  so  perfectly  normal  that  there  was  really 
nothing  left  but  to  be  normal  too,  or  it  may  be 
that  a  great  shock  stuns  your  emotional  faculties 
for  a  while.  But  I  do  not  think  it  was  that  with  me 
now.  It  was  Francis's  intense  serenity  and  happi- 
ness that  infected  and  enveloped  me. 

"I  can't  teU  whether  it  would  bore  me  or  not,"  I 
said,  "until  I  hear  it." 

"Then  make  yourself  comfortable  for  about  half 
an  hour,"  he  said.    "But  stop  me  when  you  like." 

"It  was  very  soon  after  I  came  out  to  Italy,"  he 
said,  "that  I  kept  getting  attacks  of  the  most  infer- 


MARCH,  1917  309 

nal  pain.  Then  they  ceased  to  be  attacks;  at  least, 
they  attacked  all  the  time.  It  was  about  then,  when 
it  was  worst,  that  I  wrote  you  a  pig  of  a  letter. 
Wasn't  it?" 

"It  was  rather." 

"Yes.  I  was  pretty  bad  in  other  ways  as  well, 
which  I'll  tell  you  of  afterwards.  At  present  this 
is  just  physical.  I  had  an  awful  dread  all  the  time 
in  my  mind  what  this  might  be,  though  I  kept  say- 
ing it  was  indigestion.  -Then  I  went  down  to  Rome 
and  saw  Schiavetti,  the  doctor.  And  I  can't  de- 
scribe to  you — though  it  may  sound  odd — what  a 
relief  it  was  to  know  for  certain  that  my  fears  were 
correct.  The  worst  I  had  feared  was  true,  but  any- 
how, the  fear,  the  apprehension  were  gone.  When 
you  are  up  against  a  thing,  you  may  dislike  it  very 
much,  but  you  don't  fear  the  possibility  of  it  any 
longer.  It's  there;  and  nothing,  even  the  worst,  is 
as  bad  as  suspense.    I've  got  cancer." 

He  looked  radiantly  at  me. 

"That  was  one  relief,"  he  said,  "and  on  the  top  of 
it  came  another.  It  was  quite  impossible  to  operate. 
I  needn't  be  afraid  of  being  cut  about.  All  the 
surgery  that  I  have  had  or  will  have  is  the  morphia 
needle,  which,  when  you  are  in  bad  pain,  is  neither 
more  nor  less  than  heaven.  But  I  haven't  wanted 
the  morphia  needle  for  the  last  fortnight,  and  they 
think  I  shan't  want  it  again.  After  a  few  horrible 
weeks  the  pain  grew  much  less,  and  then  ceased  alto- 
gether. I  doze  and  sleep  most  of  the  time  now,  and 
when  I  wake  it  is  to  an  ecstasy.    I  don't  want  to  die, 


310  UP  AND  DOWN 

it  isn't  that,  and  I  don't  want  to  live.  But  that 
complete  absence  of  desire  isn't  apathy  at  all.  It's 
just  the  divinest  content  you  can  imagine.  It's 
true  that  I  wanted  to  see  you,  and  here  you  are." 

An  idea  suddenly  struck  me. 

"Then  there's  something  happened  to  you,"  said 
I,  "which  is  not  physical." 

"Ah!  I  wondered  if  you  would  think  of  that. 
Guess  once  more." 

It  was  no  question  of  guessing;  I  knew. 

"You  have  passed  through  the  dark  night  of  the 
soul." 

He  laughed. 

"Yes;  that's  it.  And  that  explains  a  thing  you 
must  have  been  asking  yourself,  why  I  didn't  write 
to  tell  you  when  I  knew  what  was  the  matter  with 
me.  I  couldn't.  For  among  other  things,  which  I 
will  tell  you  of,  I  had  the  absolute  conviction  that 
you  wouldn't  come,  and  wouldn't  want  to  be 
bothered.  That's  a  decent  specimen  of  the 
pleasures  of  the  dark  night." 

He  turned  a  little  in  bed. 

"But  I  wouldn't  have  been  spared  the  dark  night 
for  all  the  treasures  of  heaven,"  he  said.  "Out  of 
His  infinite  Love  Christ  Jesus  let  me  know  some- 
thing of  what  He  felt  when  He  said,  'My  God,  my 
God,  why  hast  Thou  forsaken  me?'  I  remember 
once  we  talked  about  it,  and  it  is  summed  up  in  the 
sense  of  utter  darkness  and  utter  loneliness.  My 
mind  reasoned  it  all  out,  and  came  to  the  absolute 
conclusion  that  there  was  nothing :  there  was  neither 


MARCH,  1917  311 

love  anywhere  nor  God  anywhere,  nor  honour,  nor 
decency.  Had  I  been  physically  capable  of  it,  there 
was  no  pleasure,  carnal  and  devilish,  that  I  would 
not  have  plucked  at.  At  least,  I  think  I  should, 
but  perhaps  that  would  not  have  seemed  worth 
while.  I  didn't,  anyhow,  because  I  was  in  continual 
pain.  But  all  that  I  believed,  all  the  amazing  hap- 
piness that  I  had  enjoyed  from  such  knowledge  of 
God  as  I  had  attained  to,  was  completely  taken  from 
me.  I  could  remember  it  dimly,  as  in  some  non- 
sensical dream.  My  mind,  I  thought,  must  have 
been  drugged  into  some  hysterical  sentimental 
mood ;  but  now,  clearly  and  lucidly  it  saw  how  fan- 
tastic its  imagination  had  been.  I  went  deeper  and 
deeper  into  the  horror  of  great  darkness,  and  I  sup- 
pose that  it  was  just  that  (namely,  that  my  spirit 
knew  that  existence  without  God  was  horror)  which 
was  my  means  of  rescue.  I  still  clung  blindly  and 
without  hope  to  something  that  my  whole  mind 
denied.  It  was  precisely  in  the  same  way  that  I 
telegraphed  to  you  to  come  in  March  if  you  could. 
My  mind  knew  for  certain  that  you  didn't  care,  but 
I  did  that. 

"It  was  just  about  then  that  I  had  forty-eight 
hours  of  the  worst  pain  I  had  ever  known.  The 
morphia  had  no  effect,  and  I  lay  here  in  a  sweat  of 
agony.  But  in  the  middle  of  it  the  dark  night  lifted 
off  my  soul  and  it  was  morning.  I  can't  give  you 
any  idea  of  that,  for  it  happened  from  outside  me, 
just  as  dawn  comes  over  the  hills.  And  even  while 
my  physical  anguish  was  at  its  worst,  I  lay  here  in 


312  UP  AND  DOWN 

a  content  as  deep  as  that  which  I  have  now,  with 
you  sitting  by  me,  and  that  delicious  sense  of  physi- 
cal lassitude  which  comes  when  you  are  resting  after 
a  hard  day. 

''Next  day  the  pain  began  to  get  better,  and  two 
days  afterwards  it  was  gone.  It  has  never  come 
back  since.  I  am  glad  of  that,  for  it  is  quite  beastly. 
But  what  matters  more  is  that  the  dark  night  is 
gone.  And  that  can't  come  back,  because  I  know 
that  the  dawn  that  came  to  me  after  it  was  the 
dawn  of  the  everlasting  day." 

He  paused  a  moment. 

"And  that's  all,"  he  said. 

He  grew  drowsy  after  this,  and  presently  his 
nurse,  a  nun  from  a  convent  in  the  mainland,  settled 
him  for  the  night.  Seraphina  came  from  the 
kitchen  after  I  had  dined,  and  wept  a  little,  and 
told  me  how  Francis,  'HI  santo  signorino,"  saw  her 
every  day,  and  took  no  less  interest  than  before  in 
her  affairs  and  the  little  everyday  things.  Jasqua- 
lino  was  at  the  war,  and  the  new  boy  who  waited  at 
dinner  was  a  fat-head,  as  no  doubt  I  had  noticed, 
and  Caterina  (if  so  be  I  remembered  about  Caterina 
and  Pasqualino  and  the  baby)  was  in  good  service, 
and  the  baby  throve  amazingly.  Provisions  were 
dear;  you  had  to  take  a  foolish  card  with  you  when 
you  wanted  sugar,  but  the  vegetables  were  coming 
on  well,  and  we  should  not  do  so  badly.  The 
Signorino  liked  to  hear  all  the  news,  and,  if  God 
ivilled,  he  would  have  no  more  pain ;  but  she  wished 


MARCH,  1917  313 

he  would  eat  more,  and  then  perhaps  he  would  get 
his  strength  back,  and  cheat  the  undertaker  after 
all.  There  was  a  cousin  of  hers  who  had  done  just 
that;  he  was  dying,  they  all  said,  and  then,  Dio!  all 
of  a  sudden  he  got  better  from  the  moment  Sera- 
phina  had  cooked  him  a  great  beefsteak  for  his 
dinner. 

To  those  who  have  loved  the  lovely  and  the  jolly 
things  of  this  beautiful  world,  the  day  of  little  things 
is  never  over,  and  next  morning,  at  Francis's  request, 
I  went  down  to  the  bathing-beach  with  orders  not 
to  mind  if  the  water  was  chilly,  but  swim  out  to  the 
rock  of  the  cache  and  bring  the  tin  box  home.  From 
his  window  he  could  not  see  the  garden  itself,  but 
only  the  pine-tree,  but  would  it  not  be  possible  to 
fix  a  looking-glass  on  the  slant  in  the  window-sill, 
so  that  from  his  bed  he  could  see  as  well  as  smell 
the  freesias  and  the  narcissus  and  the  wallflowers? 
The  success  of  this  made  him  want  to  see  more, 
and  now  that  the  weather  was  warm,  there  surely 
could  not  be  any  harm  in  transplanting  him,  bed 
and  all,  on  to  the  paved  platform  at  the.  end  of  the 
pergola,  and  letting  him  spend  the  rest  of  his  days 
and  nights  in  the  garden.  With  a  few  sheets  of  can- 
vas, to  be  let  down  at  night,  and  could  we  not 
engineer  a  room  for  him  there?  He  often  used  to 
sleep  out  there  before.  The  question  was  referred 
to  the  nurse  and  met  with  her  approval  and  that 
of  the  doctor;  so  that  afternoon  we  made  every- 
thing ready,  and  by  tea-time  had  carried  him  out  on 
his  mattress  with  the  aid  of  Seraphina  and  the  fat- 


314  UP  AND  DOWN 

head,  to  his  great  contentment.  This  out-of-door 
bedroom  was  screened  from  the  north  by  the  house, 
and  between  the  pillars  of  the  pergola  to  east  and 
south  and  west  the  nimble  fingers  of  Seraphina  had 
rigged  up  curtains  of  canvas  that  could  be  drawn 
or  withdrawn  according  to  the  weather,  while  over- 
head was  the  matting  underneath  which  we  dined 
in  the  summer.  The  electric  light  was  handy  to  his 
bed,  and  on  the  table  by  it  was  a  bell  with  which 
he  could  summon  the  nurse,  who  slept  in  the  bed- 
room overlooking  the  pergola.  His  bedside  books 
stood  there  also:  "Alice  in  Wonderland,"  a  New 
Testament,  "Emma,"  and  a  few  more.  The  stone- 
pine  whispered  to  the  left  of  his  bed,  and  the  wind 
that  stirred  there  blew  in  the  wonderful  fragrance 
of  the  spring-flowering  garden. 

Francis  had  been  very  drowsy  all  day,  but  for  an 
hour  that  evening  we  talked  exactly  as  we  might 
have  talked  nearly  three  years  ago,  before  the  flame 
of  war  had  scorched  Europe.  There  were  plans  we 
had  been  making  then  for  certain  improvements  in 
the  house,  and  those  we  discussed  anew.  We  spoke 
of  the  odd  story  concerning  the  footstep  that  walked 
into  the  studio,  and  wondered  if  the  strega  would 
be  heard  again ;  the  tin  box,  which  I  had  obediently 
fetched  from  its  cache,  was  opened ;  Seraphina  came 
out  with  commissariat  suggestions  for  next  day,  and 
the  news  that  Pasqualino  had  got  a  week's  leave 
and  would  be  here  several  days  before  Easter  to  see 
the  bambino  on  which  he  had  never  yet  set  eyes. 
Soon  the  stars  began  to  appear  in  the  darkening 


MARCH,  1917  315 

night-blue  of  the  sky,  and  the  breeze  from  the  gar- 
den bore  in  no  longer  the  scent  of  open  flowers,  but 
the  veiled  fragrance  of  their  closing,  and  the  smell 
of  the  damp  earth,  irrigated  by  the  heavy  dew,  came 
with  it.  .  .  . 

We  talked  of  pleasant  and  humorous  little  memo- 
ries of  the  past,  and  plans  for  the  future,  just  as  if 
we  were  spending  one  of  the  serene  summer  evenings 
the  last  time  we  were  here  together,  three  years  ago, 
and  it  seemed  perfectly  natural  to  do  so.  Among 
those  plans  for  the  future  there  came  up  the  ques- 
tion of  my  movements,  and  we  settled  that  I  should 
go  back  to  Rome  the  day  after  to-morrow,  and  re- 
turn here  if  possible  for  Easter. 

"For  that,"  said  Francis  cheerfully,  "will  be  about 
the  end  of  my  tether.  The  end  of  it,  I  mean,  in  the 
sense  that  I  shan't  be  tethered  any  more.  Oh, 
and  there's  one  thing  I  forgot.  Be  sure  you  go  to 
some  medium  about  the  packet  I  sealed  up  on  the 
last  time  I  was  in  England.  Don't  you  remember? 
We  both  sealed  up  a  packet?" 

"Oh,  don't!"  said  I.    "I  hate  the  thought  of  it." 

"But  you  mustn't  shirk,"  he  said.  "If  it  had  been 
you,  not  me,  I  shouldn't  have  shirked.  You've  got 
to  go  to  some  medium,  and  see  if  he  can  tell  you 
what's  in  my  packet.  And  the  interesting  thing  is 
that  I  can't  remember  for  the  life  of  me  what  I  put 
there,  and  certainly  nobody  else  knows.  So  if  any 
medium  can  tell  you  what's  inside  it,  it  will  really 
be  extremely  curious.  Mind  you  tell  me — oh,  I 
forgot." 


316  UP  AND  DOWN 

"Would  you  mind  not  being  quite  so  horrible?"  I 
said. 

"I'm  not  horrible.  If  anybody  is  being  horrible 
it's  you  in  not  feeling  that  I  shall  be  living,  not  only 
as  much  as  before,  but  much  more.  I  say,  do  get 
hold  of  that." 

"Yes,  111  try.     But  the  flesh  is  weak." 

He  was  silent  a  moment. 

"It's  through  weakness  that  His  strength  is  made 
perfect,"  he  said.  "And  here's  my  nurse  coming  to 
settle  me.    What  a  joUy  talk  we've  had!" 

I  got  up. 

"Good-night,  then,"  I  said. 

"Good-night.    Sleep  as  well  as  I  shall." 

It  was  still  early  and  I  went  to  the  studio  to  read 
a  little  before  I  went  to  bed.  But  I  found  a  book 
was  not  a  thing  one  could  attend  to,  and  I  sat  doing 
nothing,  scarcely  even  thinking.  I  did  not  want  to 
think;  all  I  wanted  to  do  was  to  look  at  what  was 
going  on  here.  Thought,  with  its  perplexities  and 
conjectures  and  burrowings,  did  not  touch  the  heart 
of  the  situation.  I  could  only  contemplate;  the  best 
friend  I  had  in  the  world  lay  dying,  and  yet  there 
must  be  no  sorrow.  He  was  too  utterly  triumphant; 
banners  and  trumpets  were  assembling  for  his  pass- 
ing, and  he  called  on  the  joy  of  the  world  to  con- 
gratulate him.  He  was  not  dying,  in  his  view,  any 
more  than  a  man  dies  who  leaves  a  little  sphere  for 
a  larger  one.  Death  was  not  closing  in  upon  him, 
but  opening  out  for  him!  I  saw  him  walking,  not 
through  a  dark  valley,  but  upon  hill-tops  at  the 


MARCH,  1917  317 

approach  of  dawn,  and  soon  for  him  the  dim  night 
world  would  burst  into  light  and  colour.  Already- 
had  he  been  through  the  night,  and  now  he  lay  there 
with  morning  in  his  eyes,  assured  of  day.  All  that 
he  waited  for  now  was  the  dimming  of  the  terrestrial 
stars,  and  the  flooding  with  sun  of  the  infinite 
heavens.  He  knew  it;  all  I  could  decently  do  was 
to  try  to  look  at  it  through  his  eye,  and  not  through 
my  own,  which  were  blinded  with  tears  that  should 
never  have  been  shed.  .  .  . 

I  did  not  doubt  the  truth  of  his  conviction,  I  knew 
it  in  my  bones.  But  the  flesh  on  my  bones  was 
weak,  and  it  cried  out  for  him. 


APRIL,  1917 

It  was  on  the  evening  of  the  Thursday  before  Easter 
that  I  got  back  to  Alatri.  Once  more  the  outhne 
of  the  island,  that  had  been  a  soft  cloud-like  shape 
afloat  on  the  sea,  grew  distinct,  and  before  we  got 
there  it  lay  dark  against  an  orange  sunset  and  a 
flame  of  molten  waters.  There  stood  the  little 
crowd  on  the  pier  waiting  the  steamer's  arrival,  .but 
to-night  I  needed  not  to  look  for  Francis  among 
them.  During  the  last  ten  days  I  had  had  frequent 
news  from  his  nurse,  always  of  the  same  sort:  he 
suffered  no  more  pain,  but  each  day  he  was  sensibly 
weaker.  But  there  among  the  crowd  stood  Pasqua- 
lino  very  smart  in  his  Bersaglieri  uniform;  he  had 
come  down  to  meet  me  with  a  similar  message.  He 
had  arrived  two  days  before  on  a  week's  leave,  and, 
so  he  told  me,  spent  most  of  the  day  up  at  the  villa, 
helping  in  the  house  and  weeding  in  the  garden. 
Sometimes  when  the  Signorino  was  awake  he  called 
to  him,  and  they  talked  about  all  manner  of  things, 
as  in  the  good  days  before  he  was  ill  and  before  the 
accursed  war  came.  "And  shall  we  all  be  as  happy 
as  the  Signorino  when  we  come  to  our  last  bed?" 
asked  Pasqualino. 

There  was  a  great  change  in  Francis  since  ten  days 
ago ;  he  had  drifted  far  on  the  tide  that  was  carrying 

318 


APRIL,  1917  319 

him  so  peacefully  away.  He  just  recognized  me, 
said  a  few  words,  and  then  dozed  off  again  into  the 
stupor  in  which  he  had  lain  all  day.  Through  the 
morning  of  Good  Friday  also,  and  into  the  afternoon 
he  lay  unconscious.  But  now  for  the  first  time  his 
sleep  was  troubled,  and  he  kept  stirring  and  mutter- 
ing to  himself,  unintelligibly  for  the  most  part, 
though  now  and  then  there  came  a  coherent  sen- 
tence. Some  inner  consciousness,  I  think,  was 
aware  of  what  day  this  was,  for  once  he  said,  ^*It  was 
I,  my  Lord,  who  scourged  Thee,  and  crowned  Thee 
with  the  thorns  of  many  sorrows."  During  these 
hours  the  nurse  and  I  remained  at  his  bedside,  for 
his  breathing  was  difiicult,  and  his  pulse  very  feeble, 
and  it  was  possible  that  at  any  moment  the  end 
might  come.  PasquaUno  went  softly  about  the  gar- 
den barefooted,  doing  his  weeding,  and  once  or 
twice  came  to  look  at  his  Signorino.  A  cat  dozed 
in  the  hot  sunshine,  the  lizards  scuttled  about  the 
pillars  of  the  pergola,  and  in  the  stone-pine  a  linnet 
sang. 

But  about  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  his 
breathing  grew  more  quiet,  his  pulse  grew  stronger, 
and  he  slept  an  untroubled  sleep  for  another  hour. 
After  that  he  awoke,  and  that  evening  and  all  Satur- 
day morning  he  was  completely  conscious  and  brim- 
ming over  with  a  serene  happiness.  Sometimes  we 
talked,  sometimes  I  read  to  him  out  of  "Emma,"  or 
"Alice  in  Wonderland,"  and  during  the  afternoon  he 
asked  me  to  read  him  the  few  verses  in  St.  John 
about  Easter  Eve. 


320  UP  AND  DOWN 

"Do  come  very  early  to-morrow  morning,"  he  said, 
when  this  was  done,  "and  read  the  next  chapter,  the 
Easter  morning  chapter." 

I  put  down  the  Bible,  still  open,  on  his  table. 

"Very  well,"  I  said,  "I'll  come  at  sunrise.  But 
aren't  you  tired  now?  You've  been  talking  and 
listening  all  day." 

"Yes;  I'll  go  to  sleep  for  a  bit.  And  won't  you 
go  for  a  walk?  You  always  get  disagreeable  towards 
evening  if  you've  had  no  exercise." 

"Where  shall  I  go?"  I  asked. 

He  thought  a  moment,  smihng. 

"Go  to  the  very  top  of  Monte  Gennaro,"  he  said, 
"to  get  the  biggest  view  possible,  and  stand  there 
and  in  a  loud  voice  thank  God  for  everything  that 
there  is.  Say  it  for  yourself  and  for  me.  Say 
'Francis  and  I  give  thanks  to  Thee  for  Thy  great 
glory.'  That's  about  all  that  there  is  to  say, 
isn't  it?" 

"I  can't  think  of  anything  else." 

"Off  you  go,  then,"  he  said.  "Oh,  Lor'!  I  wish  I 
was  coming  too.  But  I'll  go  to  sleep  instead. 
Good-bye." 

I  woke  very  early  next  morning,  before  sunrise, 
with  the  impression  that  somebody  had  called  to  me 
from  outside,  and  putting  on  a  coat,  I  went  out  into 
the  garden  to  see  whether  it  was  Francis's  voice  that 
I  heard.  But  he  lay  there  fast  asleep,  and  I  suppose 
that  the  impression  that  I  had  been  called  was  but 
part  of  a  dream.    Overhead  the  stars  were  beginning 


APRIL,  1917  321 

to  burn  dim  in  a  luminous  sky,  and  in  the  East  the 
sober  dove-colour  of  dawn  was  spreading  upwards 
from  the  horizon,  growing  brighter  every  moment. 
Very  soon  now  the  sun  would  rise,  and  as  I  had 
promised  to  come  out  then  and  read  Francis  the 
chapter  in  St.  John  about  the  Resurrection  morning, 
it  was  not  worth  while  going  back  to  bed  again. 

So  waiting  for  him  to  awake,  I  took  up  the  Bible, 
which  still  lay  open  on  his  table  where  I  had  laid 
it  yesterday,  with  ''Emma"  and  ''Alice  in  Wonder- 
land," and  as  I  waited  I  read  to  myself  the  verses 
that  I  should  presently  read  aloud  to  him.  Just 
as  I  began  the  first  ray  of  the  sun  overtopped  the 
steep  hill-side  to  the  East,  and  shone  full  on  the 
page.  It  did  not  yet  reach  the  bed  where  Francis 
lay  asleep. 

"And  when  she  had  thus  said,  she  turned  herself 
and  saw  Jesus  standing,  and  knew  not  that  it  was 
Jesus. 

"Jesus  saith  imto  her,  'Woman,  why  weepest 
thou?  Whom  seekest  thou?  She  supposing  him  to 
be  the  gardener  ..." 

At  that  moment  I  looked  up,  for  I  thought  I 
heard  footsteps  coming  towards  me  along  the  ter- 
race, and  it  crossed  my  mind  that  this  was  Pas- 
qualino  arriving  very  early  to  help  in  the  house  and 
garden,  though,  as  it  was  Sunday,  I  had  not  ex- 
pected him.  But  there  was  no  one  visible;  only  at 
the  entrance  to  the  pergola,  which  was  still  in 
shadow,  there  seemed  to  be  a  faint  column  of  light. 
I  saw  no  more  than  that,  and  the  impression  was 


322  UP  AND  DOWN 

only  vague  and  instantaneous,  and  perhaps  the  first 
sunray  on  the  book  had  dazzled  me.  .  .  . 

And  then  I  looked  there  no  more,  for  a  stu*  of 
movement  from  the  bed  made  me  turn,  and  I  saw 
Francis  sitting  up  with  his  hands  clasped  together 
in  front  of  him.  And  whether  it  was  but  the  glory 
of  the  terrestrial  dawn  that  now  shone  on  his  face 
or  the  day-spring  of  the  light  invisible,  so  holy  a 
splendour  illuminated  it  that  I  could  but  look  in 
amazement  on  him.  He  was  gazing  with  bright  and 
eager  eyes  to  the  entrance  of  the  pergola,  and  in 
that  moment  I  knew  that  he  saw  there  Him  whom 
Mary  supposed  to  be  the  gardener. 

Then  his  clasped  hands  quivered,  and  in  a  voice 
tremulous  with  love  and  with  exultation: 

"Rabboni!"  he  said,  and  his  joyful  soul  went  forth 
to  meet  his  Lord. 

Never  have  I  felt  the  place  so  full  of  his  dear  and 
living  presence  as  in  the  days  that  followed.  It  was 
so  little  of  him  that  we  laid  in  the  Eglish  cemetery 
here,  no  more  than  the  discarded  envelope  which  he 
had  done  with,  and  the  love  of  our  comradeship 
seemed  but  to  have  been  more  closely  knit.  Day 
after  day,  and  all  day  long,  Francis  was  with  me  in 
an  intensity  of  actual  presence  that  never  lost  its 
security  or  its  serenity.  For  a  week  I  remained 
there,  and  hourly  throughout  it  I  expected  to  see 
him  in  bodily  form  or  to  hear  the  actual  sound  of  his 
voice.  But  I  am  sure  that  no  appearance  of  him, 
such  as  we  call  a  ghost,  or  any  hearing  of  his  voice, 


APRIL,  191T  32S 

could  possibly  have  added  to  the  reality  of  his  com- 
panionship. What  those  laws  are  which  sometimes 
permit  us  to  be  conscious  with  physical  eye  or  ear  of 
someone  who  has  passed  over  that  stream  which 
daily  seems  to  me  more  narrow,  we  do  not  certainly 
know;  but  never  before  did  I  realize  how  little  the 
mere  satisfaction  of  vision  or  audition  matters,  when 
the  inward  sense  of  the  presence  of  the  dead  is  so 
vivid.  Nor  was  it  I  alone  who  felt  this,  for  Sera- 
phina  has  told  me  how  often  in  those  days  she  would 
hear  the  stir  of  a  rattled  door-handle  or  steps  along 
the  kitchen  passage  when  she  was  at  her  cooking, 
and  look  round,  expecting  to  see  "her  Signorino," 
before  she  recollected  that  she  would  see  him  no 
more.  It  was  the  same  with  Pasqualino,  and,  oddly 
enough,  though  the  islanders  are  full  of  supersti- 
tious terror  of  the  dead,  and  avoid  certain  places  as 
haunted  and  uncanny,  neither  she  nor  he  felt  the 
slightest  fear  at  the  thought  of  seeing  Francis,  but 
looked  round  for  him  with  bright  eager  faces  which 
disappointment  clouded  again. 

And  for  me  he  was  always  there:  in  that  hot  blink 
of  premature  summer  he  came  down  to  bathe,  and 
lay  beside  me  on  the  beach;  he  swam  with  me  to 
the  rock  of  the  cache;  he  sat  with  me  at  meals;  one 
afternoon  he  came  up  to  the  top  of  Monte  Gennaro, 
to  pick  the  orchises  of  the  spring  and  to  say  his 
Gloria  for  himself.  There  was  no  break  at  all  in 
our  companionship ;  indeed,  it  but  seemed,  as  I  have 
said,  to  have  grown  in  tenser  and  more  vivid.  And 
that  which,  when  he  lay  dying,  seemed  quite  im- 


324  UP  AND  DOWN 

possible,  namely,  that  I  shouln  come  back  to  the 
island  and  the  villa  again  now  that  I  should  not  find 
him  here,  has  become  perfectly  natural,  since  I  shall 
most  assuredly  find  him  here.  He  will  be  with  me 
in  England,  too,  and  wherever  1  may  go  during  the 
period  of  my  mortal  days,  I  shall  find  him,  not  by 
any  act  of  faith  that  the  dead  die  not,  nor  by  any 
theoretical  conviction  that  his  individuality  sur- 
vives, but  from  the  plain  experience  that  it  is  so. 
.  .  .  And  when  the  dimness  and  the  dream  of  life 
vanish  from  my  awakening  vision,  I  know  also  that 
among  the  first  who  will  give  me  welcome  will  be 
Francis,  and  his  grey  merry  eyes  will  greet  me.  .  .  . 

I  arrived  back  to  a  cold  and  snowy  England  to- 
wards the  end  of  the  month,  and  as  soon  as  I  got 
home  unlocked  the  drawer  in  which  I  had  placed  on 
a  certain  day  last  January  the  two  "posthumous 
packets,"  as  Francis  called  them,  which  we  had  sev- 
erally prepared.  As  the  reader  may  remember,  we 
had  packed  them  to  serve  as  a  test  concerning  the 
possibility  of  spirit-communication,  and  in  mine  I 
had  placed  a  "J"  nib,  a  five-franc  piece  and  some 
carbolic  tooth-powder,  and  had  written  directions 
on  it  that  it  was  to  be  sent  to  him  to  deal  with  in 
the  event  of  my  dying  first.  While  I  was  doing  this 
upstairs,  he  was  making  ready  his  packet  in  the 
sitting-room,  and  on  my  return  gave  it  me  wrapped 
up  and  bound  with  string  and  sealed.  There  in  its 
drawer  it  had  lain  till  to-day,  and  the  time  was  now 
come  when  the  test  could  be  put.    The  box  in 


APRIL,  1917  325 

which  he  had  disposed  a  certain  object  or  objects 
unknown  to  me  was  some  six  inches  long,  and  about 
the  same  across. 

I  at  once  went  to  a  friend  who  is  much  immersed 
in  spiritualistic  affairs,  and  asked  him  to  arrange  a 
sitting  for  me  with  some  medium  whom  he  believed 
to  have  power,  and  believed  not  to  be  fradulent. 
(It  did  not  really  matter  whether  the  medium  was 
fradulent  or  not,  since  no  amount  of  trickery  could 
discover  the  contents  of  that  package.)  I  asked 
that  my  name  should  not  be  given,  but  that  a  sit- 
ting should  be  arranged  on  some  appointed  day.  I 
begged  him,  finally,  to  come  with  me,  so  that  be- 
tween us  we  might  get  a  fairly  complete  account  of 
what  occurred,  and  to  be  a  witness.  I  may  add  that 
I  was  not  at  all  sanguine  as  to  anything  occurring. 

Accordingly  a  few  days  afterwards  Jack  Barrett 
arrived,  and  together  we  drove  off  to  the  medium's 
house.  The  packet  that  Francis  had  made  still  lay 
in  the  locked  drawer  of  a  black  oak  table,  and  I  said 
no  word  to  my  friend  either  about  Francis,  whom 
he  had  known  slightly,  or  about  the  packet. 

The  procedure  was  of  the  kind  common  to  trance- 
mediums.  We  sat  in  a  small  front-room  of  a  rather 
dingy  house  in  a  dull  respectable  street.  The  room 
was  partially  darkened  by  the  drawing  of  curtains 
over  the  window,  but  there  was  a  bright  fire  burning 
on  the  hearth,  and  a  lamp  turned  low  was  placed 
for  my  friend  and  me  on  a  small  round  table,  so  that 


326  UP  AND  DOWN 

we  could  see  sufficiently  to  write  without  difficulty. 
The  medium  herself  was  a  pleasant-looking  woman, 
about  thirty  years  of  age,  with  a  slight  cockney  ac- 
cent and  a  quiet  level  voice.  Before  the  sitting  be- 
gan she  made  us  an  explanation  of  her  powers, 
which  I  will  give  for  what  it  is  worth.  Since  she 
was  a  child  she  had  often  gone  off  into  queer  trances, 
which  she  could  induce  at  will.  When  she  awoke 
from  them,  she  never  knew  more  than  that  she  had 
been  having  very  vivid  dreams,  and  talking  to  un- 
known people,  but  all  recollection  of  what  had 
passed  instantly  faded  from  her  memory.  Subse- 
quently she  married  and  had  one  child,  a  girl,  who 
died  at  th  eage  of  ten.  But,  going  into  a  trance  a 
day  or  so  after  her  death,  the  mother  was  aware 
when  she  awoke  that  she  had  been  talking  to  her 
child.  Thereafter  she  cultivated  her  gift,  getting 
her  husband  or  a  friend  to  sit  with  her  when  she  was 
in  trance,  and  listen  to  and  take  down  what  she  said. 
When  in  trance  she  spoke  in  Daisy's  voice,  not  in 
her  own,  and  the  dead  child  told  her  about  its  pres- 
ent state  of  existence.  Daisy  described  other  dead 
people  whom  she  came  across,  and  could  transmit 
messages  from  them.  Such  was  Mrs.  Masters's  ac- 
count of  her  gift. 

She  asked  me  only  one  question,  and  that  was 
whether  I  wanted  to  get  into  communication  with 
a  dead  friend.  I  told  her  that  this  was  so,  and  then 
quite  suddenly  found  myself  harbouring  a  strong 
distaste  for  all  these  proceedings.  I  should  certainly 
have  gone  away  and  had  no  sitting  at  all,  if  I  had 


APRIL,  1917  327 

not  recollected  my  promise  to  Francis  to  go  through 
with  it.  It  seemed  to  me  like  taking  some  sacred 
thing  into  a  place  of  ill-fame.  .  .  . 

All  that  follows  is  a  compilation  from  our  joint 
notes,  and  I  have  inserted  nothing  which  did  not 
appear  in  the  notes  or  in  the  recollection  of  both 
of  us. 

The  medium  sat  close  to  me  in  a  high  chair  oppo- 
site the  fire,  so  that  her  face  was  clearly  visible. 
Her  eyes  were  closed  and  she  had  her  hands  on  her 
lap.  For  about  five  minutes  she  remained  thus, 
and  then  her  breathing  began  sensibly  to  quicken; 
she  gasped  and  panted,  and  her  hands  writhed  and 
wrestled  with  each  other.  That  passed,  and  she  sat 
quite  quiet  again. 

Presently  she  began  to  whisper  to  herself,  and 
though  I  strained  my  ears  to  listen,  I  could  catch 
no  words.  Very  soon  her  voice  grew  louder,  but  it 
was  a  perfectly  different  voice  from  that  in  which 
she  had  spoken  to  us  before.  ...  It  was  a  high 
childish  treble,  with  a  little  lisp  in  it.  The  first  co- 
herent words  were  these: 

"Yes,  I'm  here.  Daisy's  here.  What  shall  I  tell 
you  about?" 

"Ask  her,"  said  Barrett  to  me. 

"I  want  to  know  if  you  can  tell  me  anything  about 
a  friend  of  mine,"  I  said. 

"Yes,  here  he  comes,"  she  said. 

She  then  told  us  that  he — whoever  it  was — ^was  in 
the  room,  and  was  looking  into  my  face,  and  was 
rather  puzzled  because  I  did  not  appear  to  see  him. 


328  UP  AND  DOWN 

He  put  his  hand  on  my  shoulder  and  was  talking 
to  me  and  smiling,  and  again  seemed  puzzled  that  I 
could  not  hear  him.  She  proceeded  to  describe  him 
at  length  with  very  great  accuracy,  and  presently,  in 
answer  to  a  question,  spelled  out  the  whole  of  his 
name  quite  correctly.  She  told  us  that  he  had  not 
long  passed  over;  he  had  been  on  this  side  but  a  few 
weeks  before,  that  he  had  died  not  in  England,  and 
not  fighting,  but  he  was  connected  with  fighting. 
She  said  he  was  talking  about  an  island  in  the  sea, 
and  about  bathing  ,and  about  a  garden  where  he  had 
died ;  did  I  not  recollect  all  those  things? 

Now  so  far  all  that  had  been  told  us  could  easily 
be  arrived  at  and  accounted  for  by  mind-reading. 
All  those  things  were  perfectly  well  known  to  me, 
and  contributed  no  shred  of  proof  with  regard  to 
spirit-communication.  For  nearly  an  hour  the 
medium  went  on  in  this  manner,  telling  me  nothing 
that  I  did  not  know  already,  and  before  the  hour  was 
up  I  had  begun  to  weary  of  the  performance.  As 
a  whole  it  was  an  extraordinary  good  demonstration 
of  thought-reading,  but  nothing  more  at  all.  In- 
deed, I  had  ceased  to  take  notes  altogether,  though 
Barrett's  busy  pencil  went  writing  on,  when  quite 
suddenly  I  took  my  own  up  again,  and  attended  as 
intently  as  I  possibly  could. 

Francis  told  her,  she  said,  that  there  was  a  test, 
and  the  test  was  in  a  box,  and  the  box  was  in  a  big 
black  drawer.  "It's  a  test,  he  says  it's  a  test,"  she 
repeated  several  times. 


APRIL,  1917  329 

Then  she  stopped,  and  I  could  hear  her  whispering 
again. 

''But  it's  silly,  it's  nonsense,"  she  said.  "It  doesn't 
mean  anything." 

She  laughed,  and  spoke  again  out  loud. 

''He  says,  'Bow,  wow,  wow!  Puss,'"  she  said. 
"He  says,  'Gott  strafe  the  V.C  He  says  it's  a  par- 
rot. He  says  it's  a  grey  feather  of  a  parrot  and 
something  else  besides.  Something  about  burning, 
he  says.  He  says  it's  a  cinder.  It's  a  cinder  and 
a  parrot's  feather.    That's  what  he  says  is  the  test." 

It  was  not  long  after  this  that  the  coherent  speak- 
ing ceased  and  whisperings  began  again.  Presently 
the  medium  said,  still  in  the  child's  voice,  that  the 
power  was  getting  less.  Then  the  voice  stopped 
altogether,  and  soon  afterwards  I  saw  her  hands 
twisting  and  wrestling  together.  She  stretched  out 
her  arms  with  the  air  of  a  tired  woman,  and  rubbed 
her  eyes,  and  came  out  of  trance. 

My  friend  and  I  went  home,  and  before  we  opened 
the  box  we  compared  and  collated  our  notes.  Then 
I  unlocked  the  drawer,  took  out  Francis's  packet 
and  broke  the  seals  and  cut  the  string.  The  card- 
board box  contained  a  piece  of  paper  folded  round 
one  of  Matilda's  grey  feathers  and  a  fragment  of 
burned  coal. 

Now  I  see  no  possible  way  of  accounting  for  this 
unless  we  accept  Mrs.  Master's'  explanation,  and  be- 
lieve that  in  some  mysterious  manner  Francis,  his 
living  self,  was  able  to  tell  her  while  in  this  trance 


830  UP  AND  DOWN 

what  were  the  contents  of  the  packet  he  had  sealed 
up.  No  possible  theory  of  thought-transference  be- 
tween her  and  anyone  living  in  the  conditions  of  this 
earthly  plane  will  fit  the  case,  for  the  simple  reason 
that  no  one  living  here  and  now  has  ever  had  the 
smallest  knowledge  of  what  the  packet  contained. 
That  information  had  never,  until  the  moment  that 
Mrs.  Masters  communicated  it  to  me  and  my  friend, 
been  known  to  more  than  one  person.  Francis  had 
made  the  packet,  had  sealed  it  up,  and  in  that  locked 
drawer  it  had  remained  till  we  opened  it  after  this 
sitting.  I  can  conceive  of  no  possible  channel  of 
communication  except  one,  namely,  that  Francis 
himself  spoke  in  some  mysterious  way  to  the  medi- 
um's mind.  My  reason  and  my  power  of  conjecture 
are  utterly  unable  to  think  of  any  other  explanation. 

So  accepting  that  (for  a  certain  reason  to  be 
touched  on  later,  I  rather  shrink  from  accepting  it), 
it  follows  as  possible  that  all  the  earlier  part  of  the 
sitting,  which  can  certainly  be  accounted  for  by  the 
established  phenomenon  of  thought-transference, 
may  not  have  been  due  to  thought-transference  at 
all,  but  to  direct  communication  also  with  Francis. 
And  yet  while  the  medium  was  speaking,  telling  me 
that  he  was  looking  into  my  face,  and  wondering 
that  I  could  not  see  him,  I,  who  have  so  continually 
with  me  the  sense  of  his  personal  presence,  had  no 
such  feeling.  That  Francis  whom  I  knew,  the  same 
one  who  is  now  so  constantly  with  me,  did  not  seem 
to  be  there  at  all.  .  .  . 

Now  I  reject  altogether  the  theory  of  the  Roman 


APRIL,  1917  331 

Catholic  Church,  namely,  that  when  we  try  to  com- 
municate with  the  dead  and  apparently  succeed  in 
so  doing,  we  are  not  really  brought  into  connection 
with  them,  but  into  connection  with  some  evil  spirit 
who  impersonates  them.  I  cannot  discover  or  in- 
vent the  smallest  grounds  for  believing  that;  it 
seems  to  me  more  a  subject  for  some  gruesome  maga- 
zine tale  than  a  spiritual  truth.  But  what  does  seem 
possible  is  this,  that  we  are  brought  into  connection 
not  with  the  soul  of  the  departed,  his  real  essential 
personality,  the  thing  we  loved,  but  with  a  piece 
of  his  mere  mechanical  intelligence.  Otherwise  it  is 
hard  to  see  why  those  who  have  passed  over  rarely, 
if  ever,  tell  us,  except  in  the  vaguest  and  most  un- 
convincing manner,  about  the  conditions  under 
which  they  now  exist.  They  speak  of  being  happy, 
of  being  busy,  of  waiting  for  us,  but  they  tell  us 
nothing  that  the  medium  could  not  easily  have  in- 
vented himself.  No  real  news  comes,  nothing  that 
can  enable  us  to  picture  in  the  faintest  degree  what 
their  life  over  there  is  like.  Possibly  the  conditions 
are  incommunicable;  they  may  find  it  as  hard  to 
convey  them  as  it  would  be  to  convey  the  sense  and 
the  effect  of  colour  to  a  blind  man.  Material  and 
temporal  terms  must  naturally  have  ceased  to  bear 
any  meaning  to  them,  since  they  have  passed  out 
of  this  infinitesimal  sphere  of  space  and  time  into 
the  timeless  and  immeasurable  day,  the  sun  of  which 
for  ever  stands  at  the  height  of  an  imperishable 
noon.  If  they  could  tell  us  of  that,  perhaps  we 
should  not  understand. 


332  UP  AND  DOWN 

The  upshot,  then,  is  this:  I  believe  that  when  the 
medium,  sitting  opposite  the  fire  in  that  dim  room, 
said  what  was  in  the  sealed  packet,  the  discarnate 
mind  of  Francis  told  her  what  was  there.  I  believe 
the  door  between  the  two  worlds  not  to  be  locked 
and  barred;  certain  people^ — such  as  we  call  me- 
diums— have  the  power  of  turning  the  handle  and 
for  a  little  setting  this  door  ajar.  But  what  do  we 
get  when  the  door  is  set  ajar?  Nothing  that  is  sig- 
nificant, nothing  that  brings  us  closer  to  those  on 
the  other  side.  If  I  had  not  already  believed  in  the 
permanence  and  survival  of  individual  life,  I  think 
it  more  than  possible  that  the  accurate  and  unerrmg 
statement  of  what  was  in  the  sealed  packet  might 
have  convinced  me  of  it.  But  it  brought  me  no 
nearer  Francis. 

****** 

.  A  great  event  has  happened,  for  America  has 
joined  the  cause  of  the  Allies.  That  was  long  de* 
layed,  but  there  is  now  no  possibility  of  doubting 
the  wisdom  of  such  delay,  if  from  it  sprang  the  tre' 
mendous  enthusiasm  which  shows  how  solid  is  the 
nation's  support.  What  this  event  means  to  the 
cause  of  the  Annies  cannot  be  over-estimated,  for  al- 
ready it  is  clear  that  Russia  is  as  unstable  as  a  quick- 
sand, and  none  knows  what  will  be  swallowed  up 
next  in  those  shifting,  unfathomable  depths.  There 
is  something  stirring  there  below,  and  the  first  cries 
of  liberty  and  unity  which  hailed  the  revolution 
have  given  place  to  queer  mutterings,  unconjectur- 
able  sounds.  .  .  . 


APRIL,  1917  333 

April  is  nearly  over,  and  spring,  which  came  so 
late  here  in  England  that  long  after  Easter  the  land 
lay  white  under  unseasonable  snows,  has  suddenly 
burst  out  into  full  choir  of  flower  and  bird-song. 
The  blossoms  that  should  have  decked  last  month, 
the  daffodils  that  should  have  "taken  the  winds  of 
March  with  beauty,"  have  delayed  their  golden 
epiphany  till  now,  and  it  is  as  if  their  extra  month 
of  sleep  had  given  them  a  vigour  and  a  beauty  that 
spring  never  saw  before.  The  April  flowers  are  here 
too,  and  the  flowers  of  May  have  precociously  joined 
them,  and  never  was  there  such  bustle  among  the 
birds,  such  hurried  transport  of  nest-building  ma- 
terial. But  through  all  the  din  of  the  forest-mur- 
murs sounds  the  thud  of  war. 

How  still  it  was  on  that  Easter  morning.  .  .  . 


THE  END 


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